Letters from a dead consulting detective
by Succi
Summary: After the fall Sherlock leaves without bothering to say goodbye to Molly. She is angry and determined to forget about him, but then a mysterious postcard arrives and suddenly Molly finds herself being the pen pal of a deceased consulting detective staying in contact with him throughout his mission. But what will happen after his resurrection? – Set after S2.
1. Thank you

**A/N: The idea of doing a story in epistolary-style has intrigued me. So far I've always had more trouble writing Molly than Sherlock (believe it or not, but my inner sociopath is more developed than my inner shy pathologist). But with this story I struggled hard with what Sherlock's voice in a letter would be. Because on the one hand it's easier to write down what you feel than tell someone face to face, but on the other hand you have more time to contemplate what you want to say. There are no such things as slips of the tongue or a meaningful glance in a letter. Therefore, I guess, one has to read between the lines. Long story short: I hope Sherlock is not too OOC and this experiment has not gone totally wrong. I'll let you be the judge. **

**I'd like to thank Pipsis, who did a wonderful job helping me with my mistakes and had some great suggestions. **

**Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue. **

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**Thank you **

"A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow."  
― Alice Steinbach, _Educating Alice: Adventures of a Curious Woman_

22nd June

I never thought I would do this again: write a diary – or let's call it a journal. That doesn't sound like I am a 13 year-old girl. Basically it's not so different from writing a blog, I guess, still it feels a bit strange. But since I've quit my blog a while ago and I feel like I still need to write down my thoughts in order to cope with everything, I've decided to give good old journal-writing a try. Yes, I thought about maybe starting another blog (under a different name), but I cannot risk putting all the stuff about Sherlock and his "suicide" out into the wide world of the internet. Additionally, I think I want to write about really private stuff here. And this is no one else's business.

I am not the only one who quit blogging. A few days ago, John made his last post on his infamous blog, saying goodbye to his best friend. I almost started to cry in front of the screen. I really wanted to comment on it, but I did not know what to say. I couldn't think of any words to ease his pain. Or let's say: I am not allowed to say the words that would make his pain go away.

I am a liar. I know that. Sherlock has made me one. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame him, because I've wanted to help him. But I have to admit it is hard; so very hard. The last few days have been a nightmare. After Sherlock's fall, he had been hiding in my flat for a few days – until after his funeral. It was weird having him here. I did not see much if him, because he stayed in my bedroom most of the time – at least at night. When I came home from work he was mostly sitting on the couch, his fingers steeped under his chin in thought – lost in his mind palace. When I tried for conversation, his answers (if there were any at all) were monosyllabic at best. At least he ate when I cooked dinner and he always had the breakfast I made him. Al least that's what I suspect, because it was gone when I came back from work.  
I desperately wanted to help him, because I am sure he was sad and even afraid (of course, he would never admit that). God, he had just told his best friend goodbye! He was about to leave his life behind. But I didn't know what to do or say to make him feel better. The way he was behaving told me, he would not allow it. Even Toby tried to stay out of his way after two days of desperately trying to get Sherlock to pet him. On the night before the funeral, I just couldn't take it anymore and went over to him (he was sitting on the couch staring into space) and hugged him. What a fatal mistake! At first he let me hold him, but suddenly I felt his whole body tense and he shoved me away, as if my touch had hurt him. He shouted at me that I should let him be, that he did not want my pity. I was so shocked that I could not find a single word to say in my defence, so he just stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door. I was left standing in the middle of the sitting room and only when I felt something wet on my cheek I realized I was crying. No need to tell you that I had a more or less sleepless night…

I did not see him on the morning of the funeral. I did not go there. I had taken a shift deliberately. I could not have taken it to look at Greg, Mrs Hudson and John standing by his grave crying. They probably wondered where I was. But then again, maybe they did not.  
I am sure Sherlock went there. For when I came back home, there was dirt on his shoes that were in the hallway. It was so stupid of him to go there! Not only because one could have seen him, but also because it must have hurt him; watching John standing over his grave, totally broken… Why would he torture himself like that?

I tried to talk to him that night. I knocked on his door – well actually my bedroom door – but he did not answer. I tried to open the door, but he had locked it. I asked him if he wanted anything, but all my tries were in vain. He remained silent. After some time I gave up and went to bed.

The next morning he was gone – just like that. I don't know what I've expected, but… That's not entirely true. I've expected at least a "thank you." Obviously even that was too much to ask for. And so he left me behind. Not that I've expected him to take me with him… Yet I cannot help but feel sad. Will he return? Will I ever see him again? How am I to face the others? Will I be able to pull it off? Will I be able to lie to them for… maybe forever?

Sherlock told me that it was crucial not to let anyone know that he was alive. It would put them into great danger. He told me I was protecting them by not telling them. I have no intention of endangering them, or letting Sherlock down, but I am not sure if I am strong enough. Strong enough to keep living this lie.

Maybe this is my opportunity; my opportunity to get over Sherlock Holmes once and for all. I should be mad at him for not even bothering to say "thank you" after all I've done for him. And not only in the past week, but what I have done for him in the past few years. I should hate him for leaving me behind with the burden of his secret – having to lie to the people I care about. That's what I should do! This is my chance to finally get over my childish infatuation with the detective in the silly hat. Once and for all. The world's only consulting detective is dead to the world and he will be dead to me too. This will make everything easier. I will try to do it like the others: move on.

29th June

My resolution of being mad at the world's only consulting detective lasted not even for a lousy week. Today I found a postcard from Paris in my mail. I was surprised, because I did not know any of my friends or colleagues were in Paris at the moment. When I turned the card around, I was taken aback. The only thing (apart from my address apparently) written on the postcard was:

__ _ … . … … . … .. .. … .. …. .. . .. … … . … .. … … .. . … .. …. . _ … _ . .. Thank you. _

And I would recognize the handwriting anywhere, because I have seen it correcting my grammar in autopsy reports many times. It was Sherlock's.


	2. A case of identity

**A/N: Thank you for all your reviews, alerts, etc. As always they have made me very happy. **

**A virtual hug for my beta Pipsis. THANK YOU! **

** to 101: Thank you very much! No, it's not a Morse code. I would not want it to make it that easy for you ;-) **

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**A Case of Identity**

"An empty envelope that is sealed contains a secret." – Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

1st July

Now what? My plan to forget Sherlock Holmes went down the drain. Not that I could ever really forget about him, but I tried to forget my feelings for him. I tried not to think about it, to move on, and then this damn postcard from Paris had arrived. But let me start from the beginning: Life goes on. Or so they say… I guess everyone desperately tries to see it that way. Everyone is coping in their own way: Greg dives into work and hardly ever goes home – so I've heard. I see him often now, when he comes to the morgue for a case. He never used to come that often – Sherlock always being the one coming down to the morgue. But now Greg shows up on a regular basis. We don't talk about IT, but when he thinks I can't see, he looks at me with sad eyes, as if he if having pity on me. I know he thinks I must be devastated, for he knew about my feelings for Sherlock. Hell, everyone knew. Except for the brilliant fool himself. Maybe… at least until Christmas… I definitely don't want to think about that. Anyway, I guess Greg feels obligated to pay me visits to see how I'm doing and to let me know that he is there for me. And it breaks me that he cares so much, when I should be the one consoling him. Because I can see that he blames himself for Sherlock's death. He feels responsible, because he doubted him, and if it was only for a second. I think Greg should not work so hard. But who am I to judge? I try to hide behind my work as well.

Whereas Greg tries to seek company (and maybe forgiveness?), John hides himself from the world. He's moved out of 221B (which was to be expected) and now lives in a small flat a bit further outside of London. I haven't heard or seen any of him – neither have the others. I know it sounds horrible, but I am a bit glad about it. That way I don't have to look into his sad eyes, see the pain in them and know that I am not allowed to say something to make it better. Does that make me a selfish and horrible person? Maybe.

I went to see Mrs Hudson yesterday. She invited me for tea. How could I say, "No," to that? She was lovely, as usual, but so sad at the same time. The lines of worry made her look older than she is. She even started crying at some point and I hugged her, trying to ease her pain a bit, knowing it was impossible. She told me that she could not bear the thought of going upstairs or even renting out the place; at least not yet. I told her I understood, because I was sure it was hard to find a new tenant who would treat the wall and furniture with equal respect as Sherlock. The made her chuckle and the rest of the tea was spent with small talk. I think she feels a bit disappointed that John just walked away without a word and that he has not even called so far. I can imagine how empty and lonely 221B must feel for her now.  
When we said out goodbyes she took my hand and told me, "He may not have showed it and he may not have said it, but I know he trusted you and he cared about you." I thanked her and tried my best to keep the tears under control until I was out of her sight. I know she felt (still feels) very maternal about John and Sherlock. Why else would she refer to them as "my boys"?  
I promised to visit from time to time and I want to keep my promise. Although it isn't easy for me, I think I can actually be a bit of a solace for Mrs Hudson.

And then today it happened again. I got mail from him. And I know it must be him, because who else would send me an empty envelope? Yes, he sent me an empty envelope. Again (like with the postcard) there was not even a stamp on it. There was only my address and the sender on the backside was indicated as followed:  
10 2275866 46873 8377223 566366 7919 524  
What is that supposed to mean? Why would he send me some numbers? It is not a phone number, obviously. They are not coordinates either. And the weird lines and dots on the postcard were no Morse code. Do they belong together the numbers and the lines and dots? But what can it be? Or does it mean nothing at all? Is it a cry for help? Is it a trick? Should I contact Mycroft? But how? It's not like I have his number… I don't even know where he works or lives. Since there are no stamps on them, maybe I should watch my mailbox. Someone from his homeless network must have delivered the letter. But I cannot take time off work to watch my mailbox the whole day. I'd like to see Mike's face when I tell him I needed a day off from work for a stakeout… of my mailbox…  
But Sherlock must have been sure I could figure out what it means, otherwise he would not have send that to me, would he? Oh, how I wish I was not alone in this! I wish someone could help me.

How am I supposed to forget you, Sherlock Holmes, when you keep coming back into my life, even after your death?!


	3. A tale of two brothers

**A/N: Just to avoid confusion: The initials MH in this chapter stand for Mycroft Holmes. **

**To 101: Don't worry, the explanation of the cypher is not in this chapter. And I am looking forward to new suggestions from you what it might mean ;-) A little tip: I has something to do with an item that Sherlock carries around with all the time… **

**Thanks again to my beta Pipsis. You rock! **

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**A tale of two brothers**

"All letters of love are  
ridiculous.  
They wouldn't be love letters if they were not  
ridiculous."  
― Fernando Pessoa

She figured it out. MH

I told you so. SH

She was faster than I thought. MH

You thought she could not decode the cypher at all. SH

It was a rather childish one. Even Father could have cracked it. MH

Yet still you thought she could not do it. But she did. Which means you were wrong. Admit it. SH

Does that make you happy, brother mine? MH

Yep. SH

Now, did you tell her how to proceed? SH

Of course. I told her if she wanted to contact you she just had to throw the letter into the rubbish bin beside the telephone booth at St Bart's. The rest would be taken care of. MH

Did you instruct her not to write anything on the envelope? SH

Do you think me an idiot? MH

I assume that was a rhetorical question. SH

I'm glad to see your mission has not lessened your scathing humour. MH

So I take you did tell her about the plain envelope? SH

Yes. MH

Good. SH

Always at your service, brother mine. MH

Sure… SH

Do you really think it wise to become the pen pale of Miss Hooper now of all times? MH

This is none of your business. SH

Since I am about to play post man I do think it is. MH

Don't be ridiculous! As if YOU would condescend to do any footwork. SH

Still, they are my men who have better things to do than delivering love letters from you to your pathologist. MH

Obviously they don't. And they are NOT love letters. SH

If you say so. MH

Don't give me that. Or should I quote some passages from the text feed between you and Anthea? What do you call her? My little goldfish… SH

You would not dare to go there. MH

Additionally, most of the people involved are from my homeless network. So do me a favour and stop whining and enjoy the rest of your endodontic treatment. SH

It's almost the same pleasure as talking to you. MH

Give Anthea my regards. SH

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**A/N: Short I know. But with the next chapter we'll finally start with the letters between Molly and Sherlock. And don't worry there will be a proper explanation of the cypher. **


	4. The scarlet letter

**A/N: Thanks again to you all for reading and reviewing and of course to Pipsis my awesome beta! **

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**The Scarlet Letter**

"Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost."  
― Virginia Woolf, _Jacob's Room_

12th July

Hello, I hope this finds you well. Since I am not sure if it is safe to use names, I'll just leave it without proper salutation. I hope you won't think it's rude…  
How are you? I know you don't like small talk, but I'd really like to know how you are doing. Where are you at the moment? Since your postcard was from Paris, I figure you were there. But are you still there? Did you climb the Eiffel Tower? What a stupid question! You're not there for a holiday. Are you even allowed to tell me where you are?  
I am sorry about the weird colour of the paper. I did not have any plain white paper at home and I did not want to use some squared paper from a sketch book. I don't think it's appropriate for a letter. But this was the only paper I could find. I bought it for crafting once. Therefore I'm writing on scarlet paper. I'll make sure to buy normal paper for the next letter. If you'll want me to write you another letter, that is.

Thank you for the postcard. And I wanted to tell you, "You're welcome." I am glad I could help you. So let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.

I'll be honest: I haven't expected to hear from you - especially not to get a postcard or a letter. Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate it, though. That way I know that you are... alive. I admit it's a bit weird writing you. I really don't know what to tell you… Nothing out of the ordinary has happened since you've left. I guess that's because most of the extraordinary stuff comes with you. Most of the autopsies have not been really interesting, just routine. Mainly heart attacks; and even the ones that did not die of a natural cause would have been boring for you. They were just the usual: domestic violence, stabbing, one poisoning (with strychnine, I mean, who does that nowadays?), … BTW: I'll keep looking after your cultures. Your experiment about coagulation of saliva after death looks promising. I am certain it will bring new insights that could be useful for forensics. I wonder why no one thought about conducting such an experiment before?  
I reckon you have neither the time nor the space to do some experiments where you are now, do you? Has everything gone according to the plan so far? Do you have any idea how long your mission will take? Do you have help, or are you on your own? I figure your brother is helping you?

Here in London, your suicide has finally moved from the cover to page 13, but they are still writing about it and most of it is not very nice. I hate reading the articles of this stupid woman Kitty Riley, who invents all this mean things about you. How can a person do that? Doesn't she even consider that the things she says about you might actually hurt someone? Isn't it enough that her lies about you have driven you to commit suicide? Well, not really, but you know what I mean... Slowly there are rumours heard about government conspiracies concerning your death. Some weird people started posting all kinds of theories on the internet, assuming that the government had something to do with it. Funny isn't it that they are right in some way? I'm looking forward to some theories about you being abducted by aliens.  
But I am positive that they will stop gossiping about it soon. In my opinion they keep writing about it still because of the silly season. And tabloids have always liked writing about you. And it seems as if they even enjoy it more now that you are some kind of fallen hero (no pun intended).

Since I don't want to bother you any more with small talk (knowing how you detest it), and I am sure you have more important things to do than reading long letters, I'll stop now.  
I hope you're safe and doing well and like I've said before: Let me know if there is anything I can help you with.

Best wishes from me and Toby.


	5. No American in Paris

**A/N: Thank you all for your support with this story. And thank you to my wonderful beta Pipsis. I really appreciate the time and energy she invests in helping me. **

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**No American in Paris **

"An isolated person requires correspondence as a means of seeing his ideas as others see them, and thus guarding against the dogmatisms and extravagances of solitary and uncorrected speculation. No man can learn to reason and appraise from a mere perusal of the writing of others. If he live not in the world, where he can observe the public at first hand and be directed toward solid reality by the force of conversation and spoken debate, then he must sharpen his discrimination and regulate his perceptive balance by an equivalent exchange of ideas in epistolary form."  
― H.P. Lovecraft

22nd July

Molly,

Rest assured that this way of communication is absolutely safe otherwise I would not have bothered to contact you at all. And if it were not safe, the way you have written your first letter, would have given away too much. So people would not have needed names to guess who you were talking about or who you or I were, for that case. So you can use names all you like. But I honestly don't care about the salutation.

Please do stop apologizing. I don't care on which paper you write on. As long as you refrain from using stationary with baby animals on it, I am fine with it.

Thanking me for the postcard is unnecessary, for it was only a means to an end. I needed an inconspicuous way to send you the first part of the cypher, and a postcard seemed like the most efficient way to do so.

You asked me if I am allowed to let you know where I am. Who should forbid me to tell you? As you have rightly assumed, I am still in Paris. And no, I neither have time nor interest in participating in touristy stuff like climbing the Eiffel Tower or taking pictures of the Arc de Triomphe. I have been to the Louvre, but after closing time, of course. The mass of stupid people wandering from room to room only looking for Da Vinci's enigmatic smiling woman (and in the end most of them are disappointed, because they imagined the painting to be much bigger) is just unbearable. But at night the museum can be quite a nice place. Not because of the picture, I don't particularly care about most of the art there, but because of the silence. It's a good place to think.

I've come to Paris to meet with an American contact, but he seems to have vanished. I've been busy trying to find him and two days ago I finally succeeded. I found his body. But I have been lucky, because I found some evidence on the crime scene, which will lead me to the murderer eventually, who is part of Moriarty's network.

I don't know how long it will take to dismantle Moriarty's network. I am still in the process of figuring out how big it really is. The only thing I know for sure is that his men are widely scattered all over Europe and probably even further than that. Time will tell.

Too bad that most of your autopsies are dull routine, I was hoping for some interesting ones. But now you can relate to how hard it was for me to find cases above a 7, or even some that were worth leaving the house. People are so uninventive in killing someone. Like you've said: Strychnine – that's so 19th century…

I would appreciate it if you would document the experiment about coagulation of saliva after death very accurately. Otherwise I cannot use the data. Probably no one has thought about conducting that experiment before, because not many people share my intellect and interest in forensics. Most people don't value it. The same goes for my study on tobacco ash. People still don't see the importance and relevance of that study. Common people are ignorant.

It was to be expected that the tabloids would jump at the chance to sully my name. I don't care what they say about me and neither should you. I don't understand: If reading that crap upsets you, why were you reading it in the first place? And yes, Kitty Riley is stupid, but we were able to use her stupidity to our advantage. You can always count on people's ignorance. Let's be glad that no one is as clever as I am.  
It's obvious why they are still writing about it, because it sells, apparently. Like you have said, I have always been a person of public interest. And people have always been more interested in the silly hat and giving me stupid nicknames than what I did for them. Therefore your narration about the type of the articles about my death does not surprise me at all.  
I don't see why you would be looking forward to a story about me being abducted by aliens. There is no such thing as an alien abduction. You as a scientist really should know better. And even if there was such a thing: Why would they abduct me? Why choose me? The chances of that to happen are highly improbable.

I am more or less on my own in this. I am in contact with Mycroft, of course, but he is busy waging war somewhere or playing chess with himself. I never did and still don't expect any help from him. I would be foolish do to so. The more people are pulled into this, the more dangerous it will get for me. Moriarty has a vast network and spies and allies everywhere. I'll need to be very careful and cannot trust anyone. But since I am used to do things on my own, I don't mind. It is even better. That way I don't have to look out for someone else, or bother to answer dull questions or be slowed down by someone not keeping up. It's refreshing.

Sherlock


	6. Sunday in the park with Mycroft

**A/N: Thanks again to all of you! Finally the solution of the cypher... ;-) I am sorry it does not look as it was supposed to look (you'll now what I'm talking about once you'll see it), but FF format won't allow me to put the letters under the numbers and the numbers under the dots. Only the last line of the cypher looks like it is supposed to. But I hope you'll understand the concept none the less. **

**A bear hug to Pipsis, my lovely beta! **

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**Sunday in the park with Mycroft **

"I write letters to you that you'll never see."  
― Jennifer Elisabeth

23rd July

Quite a lot has happened since my last entry. I know I should write on a more regular basis, but I just couldn't find the time. Anyway… After getting the postcard from Paris and the empty envelope with the numbers on it from Sherlock, I found it hard to occupy myself with something else than thinking about it. What was it supposed to mean? I was sure the lines and dots on the post card and the numbers on the envelope were somehow related, but I just couldn't figure out how. It was so frustrating! Secretly I had been hoping that maybe he (or Mycroft or one of his homeless network) would send me another clue, or help me out somehow. But nothing happened. There were no new messages, no phone calls in the middle of the night with no one on the other end of the line, … Well that may be a cliché, but still… I was hoping for some kind of support. Since there was none I got more and more frustrated as days went by. The frustration turned into anger – at myself for not finding the solution and at Sherlock himself, for putting me into this position.

One night I was going through my texts and deleting some old massages (because my mobile is getting slow because of all the saved messages), when I stumbled across the text feed between me and a certain consulting detective. As you can imagine the messages are mostly very short and never personal – always work related. But I could not bring myself to delete a single message from him, not even the most useless ones like, "Fetch me the matches." And while I got even angrier at myself for not deleting even the rudest texts, I started to think about Sherlock's obsession with his mobile that was practically glued to his hand. If he'd ever have a love affair, then with his mobile. And suddenly it hit me: The cypher was related to the phone. I retrieved the envelope and the postcard from my bag (yes, I have been carrying them around with me all the time) and put them next to my mobile. I had been staring at the weird messages about a hundred times before, and they'd never been more to me than peculiar symbols, but suddenly it all made sense. The numbers stood for the numbers on the keypad of my mobile and the lines and dots for the number of times I had to press them in order to get the right letter. It may sound a bit complicated, but it wasn't. It became even easier after I wrote the numbers under the dots. And then it looked pretty much like that:

_ _ ... . ... ... . ... .. .. ... .. ... .. . .. ... ... . ... .. ... ... .. . ... .. ... . _ ...

10 2275866 46873 8377223 566366 79199

10 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE LONDON SW1Y

__ . .. _  
5 2 4  
5 A H

It was an address: 10 Carlton House Terrace London, SW1Y 5AH. Sherlock had sent me an address. And now I wondered what I should do with it. Being a woman of the 21st century, I googled it, of course. I could not really find out more than that it was a building near St. James's Park and built in eighteen something. I looked for the fastest way to get there from my flat and decided to go there first thing in the morning. As you can imagine, I had a rather sleepless night, counting the hours until dawn.

Sunday morning, standing in front of the white building of 10 Carlton House Terrace I was once again clueless. The thing is: Looking for a sign and not knowing what the sign is supposed to be doesn't really make it easy. So I looked around the area to maybe find something that looked out of place, or which would strike me as odd. But of course I didn't find anything of that kind. When I was about to give up and head back home, a voice behind me made me jump, "Good morning, Miss Hooper. I'm glad you've found your way here." I turned around to the owner of the voice (which did not sound glad at all) and looked into the bored eyes of Mycroft Holmes. He was leaning on his umbrella and clearly enjoying my surprise. Before I could utter some sort of greeting, he suggested, "Let's walk, Miss Hooper, shall we?" It did not really come across like a suggestion, but more like a command. Without waiting for a reply he started to walk down in the direction of St James's Park. Since I saw no reason for objecting him, I followed. We walked side by side for a few minutes and I was waiting for him to explain everything to me, but he remained silent. I grew impatient, but after a few minutes, I couldn't take it anymore. "Mr Holmes," I started, but he interrupted me.  
"Mycroft, please. My brother's friends are my friends as well." He did not even bother to look at me, but kept walking and the way he had said it, I was not sure if he was joking, mocking me, or making fun of his absent brother. Either way, I tried my best not to show my irritation and continued, "Mycroft, what is this all about?"  
He sighed and kicked some stone that was lying on the path away with the tip of his umbrella.  
"My brother likes drama and being mysterious. He thinks that makes him more interesting."  
I did not know what to reply to that, so I waited patiently for him to continue, which he did after another heavy sigh, "If you wish to stay in contact with him – which I assume you do – you can do so by writing letters. Just throw them into the dustbin next to the phone booth in front of St Bart's." I could not believe that I had heard him correctly, so I asked to clarify, "I should throw them into the dustbin?"  
"Yes."  
"But…," I wanted to say a the letter would get lost in there, but he cut me off, "Let that be of our concern." Before I could ask another question, he went on, "Always put the letter in a plain envelope. Don't write anything on it. Do you understand?" He sounded like he was talking to a two-year-old and that made me a bit angry. Still I answered, "Yes, I do. A plain envelope."  
He nodded and kept walking. Silence settled again. I wanted to ask him where Sherlock was, if he was okay, if I could do anything for him, but when I had finally gathered up the courage to ask at least one of those questions, I realized that we had left St James's Park and were standing in front of 10 Carlton House Terrace again.  
"Well, then, good day, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, nodded and went inside the white building. I must have mumbled something in kind, but I am not sure. It took me a few moments to process what had just happened, before my feet dragged me back to the underground. That had been the weirdest morning walk in my life.

Back home I sat down and started to write a letter to Sherlock. It felt weird. Not only because I had not written a letter in years, but because I was not sure what to write. Sherlock had never been one for small talk, but what more was there to write, when I wasn't even sure if it was safe to use names? Somehow I managed to fill the page and put the paper into a plain envelope without address or sender on it. I could hardly wait for the next day to post the letter, because I thought it might have looked suspicious if I had gone to Bart's on my day off. Therefore I did it the next day. As instructed I threw the envelope into the dustbin. And I've got to admit: I had my doubts. What if Mycroft had just made fun of me? And then the waiting started. Every time I passed the dustbin, I had to look at it. I don't even know why. It was not like Sherlock's reply would come out of it. I had to fight the urge to have a look inside if my letter was still in there. But then I found another plain envelope in my mailbox. It was from him. I flew over the page and it occurred to me that this was the longest note, text (…?), he had ever sent to me. And that thought made me happy. He told me that it was okay to use names. But if it was safe to use names, then why the cypher in the first place? Was it because Mycroft was involved? Or because it was not safe at first? Or was it some kind of test? Or is it like Mycroft had said: Sherlock likes to be mysterious? Whatever the reason, it goes without saying that I am so happy to have heard from him! Although he did answer most of my questions, he did not ask any himself. And he did not get my joke about the alien abduction. He has not answered my question if he wants me to write him another letter, but since he did not tell me not to, I guess he wants me to continue writing. And he said in the first paragraph "your first letter", so I assume this indicates that he expects me to write more letters. Or am I interpreting way too much into this? I know women are very good in that, and I am an expert in that field.

I find it peculiar that he did not ask about John or the others. But like I said, he has not asked any questions. Maybe it hurts him too much to think about them? Maybe I should just tell him? Sherlock has never been someone to ask for anything. He just takes whatever he wants and expects everyone to give it to him freely. What's the worst that could happen if I'll tell him? If he doesn't want to know, he can just skip the paragraph… Well, I guess, I'll sit down and write another letter to Sherlock Holmes then.

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**A/N: I shamelessly borrowed the cypher from **_**Prison Break**_**. And I could not help the **_**Downton Abbey **_**reference.  
**


	7. Previously on: Life without you

**Thanks again for all the support. I makes me so happy that you are enjoying this story. **

**Thank you to my beta Pipsis! **

* * *

**Previously on **_**Life without you **_

"But you're asleep, and you're a few miles away, and I have no means to get to you right now, so I'm writing."  
― Darnell Lamont Walker, _Creep_

24th July

Dear Sherlock,

Thank you for your last letter. How's the weather? I am glad to hear that you are doing well – or at least as well as you can do under these circumstances. I am sorry to hear that your American contact had been killed, but I am sure you have managed to find the murderer in the meantime; and maybe a new lead to Jim's - I mean - Moriarty's network.  
As you can see, I've bought some stationary – with no baby animals on it. So no more scarlet letters...  
Don't worry about your experiments, I will document them well. After all, I am used to that, because it' part for my job.

When I wrote I was looking forward to reading some stories about you being abducted by aliens, I was merely joking. I don't believe in such a thing either. And that's why I find it so amusing that some people do. And I am sure some people will start posting such ridiculous theories soon.

While reading your letter, I realized that you did not ask about John or the others. Should I tell about them? Do you want to know? I am sure you do, but maybe you did not have the time to ask about them in your letter. I can imagine you are pretty busy. Well, I figure, I'll just tell you some things and if you're not interested, or… you know… you can just skip the next few lines. So here is the how-everyone-is-coping-paragraph:

Let's start with Greg: He more or less hides himself behind his work. He comes to the morgue more often these days, because he thinks he needs to check up on me. From what I have heard from his colleagues, he often sleeps in his office and things between him and his wife are strained again. I'm afraid, if he carries on like that they will get divorced. Didn't you predict that last year? But maybe it's for the best for both of them. I doubt they have been happy in their marriage for quite some time now. Greg tries to solve his cases in record time – like trying to compensate for your absence. So, don't worry, New Scotland Yard is in good hands.

Your "friend" from forensics and your "favourite" detective sergeant have split up. And you won't believe what the reason was: you! Anderson has gone through a dramatic change since your fall. He feels responsible for what has (supposedly) happened to you and wanted Donavan to feel the same. But since she still thinks you were a – and I quote – "self-righteous bastard", Anderson ended the relationship. But don't worry, he has already found himself a new occupation in his spare time: He founded this fan club; it's called _The Empty Hearse_. If you happen to spare a minute or two, look it up on the net. It's so weird! Anderson and his followers have all this peculiar theories about your death going on. Anderson is convinced that you are still alive. Of course he has approached me and asked me if I wanted to join _The Empty Hearse_. As you can imagine, I politely declined. It was really strange, because the way he looked at me when I told him no, I could swear he suspected something. Don't worry, I did not say anything and I am sure I played my part the best I could, yet still Anderson's behaviour is a bit disturbing.

I had tea with Mrs Hudson the other day. She misses you, of course, but she is doing fine. We had a nice chat and I promised to visit her again. And I'm planning on doing that on a regular basis. She is an old lady, after all, and she needs some company. Don't worry about your flat. I don't think she will lend it out any time soon.

And finally there is John. As it was to be expected he has moved out of 221B and now lives in a flat a bit further outside. I have not seen any of him lately and neither have the others. I guess he needs some time to cope with everything. But that was to be expected, wasn't it? He just needs some time to grieve. We all do, and everyone does it in their own way. John chose to grieve alone. I understand and respect that. And I think we should give him the time he needs, don't you agree? And I am sure after that, he will be his old self again. As you have probably seen, he has stopped blogging. I guess he needs some distance from your time together – and that includes distance from us. Times are not easy, but John is strong. He has gone through traumatic experiences before. He will be okay.

End of the how-everyone-is-coping-paragraph.

Yesterday I had the first interesting corpse since weeks: I had to do the post mortem on a woman called Julia Stoner (I remember reading one of your cases on John's blog where there was a woman of the same name; funny coincidence, isn't it?). The circumstances of her death were unknown, because she had been alone in her room at night. Her sister had come running to her when she had heard her scream. But by the time she had reached her room, her sister had fallen lifelessly into her arms. Their step father – a rich man traveling to East Africa and India on a regular basis and collecting all kinds of exotic animals - had called the ambulance, but she had been DOA. It was obvious that she had seized before her death. And since I could not find any traces of external forceful impact, I checked for poison. But the results have been negative. I have to admit I am a bit at a loss, and so are the police. The step father is known to be a rude man, but had neither motive nor opportunity. It is quite a strange case, because it is for certain that Julia was on her own in her room when she died. Do you have any ideas?

Well then, I'll leave you be.

Yours,

Molly


	8. Himalayas

**A/N: Love, hugs and sunshine to all the lovely reviewers, alerters (is that a word?), … You are brilliant!  
Pipsis, thank you for coping with my mistakes and you attention to detail – it was crucial for the next two chapters. **

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**Himalayas**

"Now everybody who knows anything at all knows perfectly well that even a business letter does not deserve the paper on which it is written unless it contains at least one significant phrase that is worth waking up in the night to remember and think about."  
― Eleanor Hallowell Abbott, _Molly Make-Believe_

6th August

Molly,

Why would you be interested in the weather conditions here? Until you'll get that letter, the weather would have changed. Additionally it would be easier and more accurate to just look it up on the internet. Conversations about the weather are for boring people. You are not one of them, so don't pretend to be.

Why are you telling me about this Greg-guy as if I should know him? What makes you think I am interested in gossip about a person I don't know? Please clarify. And how come you think he (he's a detective with New Scotland Yard, obviously) would be able to compensate my absence? That's ridiculous. Even if he doessolve the cases in record time, it doesn't mean that he's got the murderer. One thing why Scotland Yard needed my help on a regular basis was, because they got the wrong guy. And I don't see any reason why that should have changed during the short time of my absence. Maybe it would have, if this Greg would have my skills and intellect. But that is highly unlikely. Therefore I would appreciate some specification on that paragraph of yours. Accuracy in every day conversation has never been your forte, but please try to be more precise in your explanations.

As for Donovan and Anderson: Their relationship was never meant to last, so their break up does not surprise me in the least. But I have to admit that I find it amusing that I am the reason for it. And I have to give Donovan some credit: at least she sticks to her opinion about me. Anderson's reaction just proves to me that I was right in assuming he was a whining, little idiot. I looked up _The Empty Hearse _on the internet. It is unbelievable with what people waste their time. Don't they have anything else to do than make up ridiculous theories about a person they don't even know? Obviously not. I sincerely hope you have no plans in participating in any of this nonsense? The good thing about it is that it is all so farfetched that no one will take it seriously. Even if they could figure out how it was done (which they won't), no one would believe them.

The thing Mrs Hudson probably misses the most, is having someone to annoy with her overly-maternal behaviour. Don't worry about her being lonely. She has found company in the new owner of _Speedy's. _At least this one is not married... Of course she will not look for a new tenant for 221B. She won't be able to find a better one than me, and she knows that. I am non- replaceable. But I am afraid she might clean my flat and ruin my order. She has never understood how important it was for me that she would keep the things where I had put them. She was blind to my well-considered system and the smell of her polish was unbearable. Sometimes she would clean while I was away, thinking that I would not notice. Ridiculous. As if I would not notice when my flat smelt of artificial lemon. Would you please have a look at the flat the next time you visit her in order to check on Billy? I fear she might throw him away. She has never been very fond of him. Just tell her you would like to get some things back that you have borrowed me for some experiments. She will give you the key and won't follow you upstairs.

The case of Julia Stoner seems quite obvious to me. I did some googleing on the stepfather and it seemed like his deceased step daughter was about to marry and according to the last will of her mother, would inherit all her money if she did. There you got your motive. You told me the step father had a collection of exotic animals and travelled to India on a regular basis. Is one of his "pets" a _Proatheris superciliaris_? They are the most venomous snakes in India, their poison kills within minutes and is broken down by the body within a few hours – therefore unverifiable. Did no one think about that? All you have to do is look for tiny bite marks on the body, check if such an animal is in the step father's possession (which will be the case) and find the hole in the wall or ceiling of Miss Stoner 's room where the snake could have entered (opportunity). Case closed. I wonder how you will be able to deal with the easiest cases while I am gone.

I have moved on and am not in Paris anymore. Actually I am far from France. Some evidence has led me to the Himalayas, where I infiltrated a sect of Buddhist warrior monks. I knew the head of a drug smuggling ring was hiding there. It only took me two days to find her. Yes, you have read correctly. The head of the drug smuggling ring was a woman. As you can imagine, it was not hard to detect a blonde woman in a monastery among bald monks. Even Lestrade could have done that.

Sherlock

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**A/N: As you will have undoubtedly realized, I am building a story around what we know Sherlock did in his absence according to **_**Many happy returns**_**. **


	9. Non-replaceable

**A/N: Thanks for all your encouraging reviews, because I am still a bit unsure about it – doing a story in epistolary style is something totally different… **

**Pipsis, I bow to you. Because of you my reference to **_**The speckled banner **_**makes sense. **

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**Non-replaceable **

"To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart."  
― Phyllis Theroux

12th August

Dear Sherlock,

How dare you accuse me of not being precise in every day conversations?! You don't even know how to do small talk! The fact that you did not understand why I was telling you about Greg did not derive from me being ambiguous, but from the fact that you don't find it important enough to remember things like first names. Because if you did, you would have realized that I was talking about DI Greg Lestrade. Sometimes I wonder if you constantly forget his first name on purpose... I can only assume that you were joking. Since I know one of your hobbies it to nick Lestrade's police ID, you surely know his first name.

Of course I am not planning on joining _The Empty Hearse. _Why would I do such a thing? I have already told you that I have declined Anderson's offer. Do you think I have changed my mind? I find it as ridiculous as you do – maybe even more. But I would be lying if I said I did not find it disturbing that some of the theories come quite close to the truth. But I guess you are right: Most of them are so weird that no one will take them seriously. At least I hope so. BTW: Papers have finally stopped writing about you. Even "Hello" Kitty has found a new victim. Maybe it has something to do with Anderson. Because rumour has it that he has threatened her, he would bring forth some delicate secret of her past if she won't stop writing this lies about you. Seems like it has worked.

You are (were?) in the Himalayas? Wow. I've always wanted to go there since I've read _Seven years in Tibet_. I find the culture in Tibet and Nepal very interesting, although I would not want to climb the Mount Everest. I am not really into hiking or climbing. Though I am sure the view from the top is breath taking. But once again, I know you're not there for vacation. Yeah, a blonde woman between bald monks doesn't seem too hard to spot. But I am sure she hid herself well behind locked doors and a cloak. A woman running a smuggler ring? I've always thought about men being the big boss. Looks like feminism has finally reached organized crime as well. I am not so sure if I should feel proud about that…

Since I don't have any stories about ninja-monks to tell, you will have to put up with the narration of my boring life in London: On Friday I was invited to a party of some friends. Their names are Sue and Richard and I have known them since Uni. Although they are a couple they are bearable and so I decided to go to the party. There were quite a lot of people there, including some friends I hadn't seen in years and some people I had never seen before. Sue introduced me to a guy called Tom. We chatted for some time and had a few drinks. He was nice. He works at a small book store on Shaftsbury Avenue. He has got a dog, an older sister and he asked me out for the next weekend. He wants to take me to a pub down Cowcross Street. Since it's close to Bart's I know there are a few nice ones there. So, I'm looking forward to it.

About your flat: I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I guess everyone was blind to your "system". Don't get me wrong, I like your flat, but it has always been a messy place, with all this paper lying around and the experiments in your kitchen...

I have done what you've wanted me to and asked Mrs Hudson to let me into 221B to get back some lab equipment. She did like you've predicted and gave me the key, but did not follow me upstairs after she had asked me if I was okay with going alone. I had a look around your flat and it seemed like she had not touched anything. It did not smell of artificial lemon and there was a thin layer of dust on the coffee table, so I don't think you'll have to worry. Billy is still safe on the mantelpiece, surveying the flat. For a moment I thought about taking him with me, but then I could not think of a way to get him out of the flat without Mrs Hudson noticing. He was too big to hide him under my coat and I did not know what to tell Mrs Hudson if she were about to ask why I wanted to take the skull with me. She told me that she had not touched anything in the flat – apart from some things in the fridge that she had to throw away, because they looked "hazardous" and she feared they would "come to life and eat" her. Additionally she told me that she did not plan on throwing anything away. I am sure that Billy and the rest of your possessions are perfectly safe. What about Billy anyway? Where does he come from? Why do you have him standing on the mantelpiece? Does he hold some kind of sentimental value to you? Or does he remind you of something special?

Thank you so much for the help with the case of Miss Stoner. I looked for the bite marks and found them on her right upper arm. When I told Greg (Lestrade) about my findings and that I thought I had some theory about the circumstances of the crime, he looked at me quite sceptical. Nevertheless he went back to the crime scene for further investigations. It turned out that there had been a hole in the wall of the bedroom of Miss Stoner, through which her stepfather had sent the snake (he had trained the _Proatheris superciliaris_, which is endemic to East Africa and not India, by the way). It had bitten the poor woman. After it had turned out that all your assumptions had turned out to be true, Lestrade came back to the morgue and told me, "Sherlock could not have done it any better."  
You were right: You are non- replaceable.

Yours,

Molly

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**A/N: This has been an interesting experience so far, because it feels a bit like being my own pen pal ;-) **


	10. New Delhi

**A/N: Again, all my love to the lovely people here who support me and this story, and to my beta Pipsi.  
Let's see what Sherlock has to say about Tom… **

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**New Delhi**

"It crossed my mind that my letters are all about me and not you. I would hope that you pay me the same respect."  
― Bill Callahan, _Letters to Emma Bowlcut_

22nd September

Molly,

I have left the Himalayas behind and am now in New Delhi. (I have never written anything about ninja-monks. How do you come up with that peculiar combination?! There is no such a thing.) In my time between waiting for a contact I passed my time with solving a local case. Maybe you have seen the press conference of Inspector Prakesh on the news. He is a good man, but the police here are just as useless as ours back in London. One of the forensic guys would be a serious threat to Anderson in case of stupidity. Anyway, the police were not able to find the murderer of a woman, because – as usual – they did not observe. In order to find the killer I only had to calculate the distance the chocolate flake had sunk into the victim's ice-cream cone. It was as easy as that. (I remember quite a similar case involving the family Abernetty) When will the police realize that all it takes to solve a case is pay attention to details? It was like the time when Lestrade told me they had solved the case, because they had found the murderer and I had to explain to him that finding the killer and solving the case were not the same.

Concerning Lestrade's first name: This information is not vital. I have to delete some boring information from time to time in order to save more important ones. So far Lestrade has been fine with me calling him by his surname. And even if he weren't, I would not mind. Names in general don't matter much to me. They are just some arrangements of consonants and vowels. What does it matter if your name is Molly or Sally? Names don't tell you anything about a person.

I hope Anderson does not expect me to be grateful for his attempt at blackmailing Kitty Riley. (Why are you referring to her as "Hello" Kitty?) I don't need or expect him to defend me. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself. If I had wanted I would have revealed Kitty Riley's little secret myself, but she's not worth the time or effort. Additionally I can only repeat myself: I don't care what anyone writes about me in the papers. I don't depend on the opinion of people reading that crap. And you would be wise to do the same.

You should learn to be more confident about your skills. Of course you telling Lestrade you thoughtyou might have solved the case would leave him doubtful. But if you were to state with absolute conviction that you have solved the case, he would believe you from the beginning. Stop belittling yourself. You are a competent pathologist. And just to clarify: I did not make "assumptions" on the circumstances of the crime. These were logical conclusions.

You're not one to judge about a messy lifestyle: Your flat is more of a chaos than mine ever was. You have so much useless stuff standing around, and how you can live with a bookshelf that is such a mess I cannot understand. Your books are neither arranged according to titles, authors nor genres. Not even your medical journals are arranged according to issue. How can one live like that? And your collection of DVDs... don't even get me started. Ordinary people may not recognize my system as such, but rest assured I have one. And as opposed to your flat: All stuff that I have in mine is essential to my work. You can't be telling me that a collection of vanilla scented candles holds any relevance to your work as a pathologist. And why do you keep those dead flowers on your sill? Are you planning on conducting any experiments on them, or what other purpose do they serve? You have a morbid sense of humour, but I doubt that you want to be surrounded by death in your spare time as well.

I hope you've told Mrs Hudson that there's nothing to worry about since it is scientifically impossible for anything in the fridge to become alive and eat her. The imagination of old women can be too vivid sometimes.

How can a skull have sentimental value to me? It is just bone. It is a product of an early case, nothing more.

Women being the head of organized crime is not as unusual as you might think. And it's not something that came along only in the last few years (although it's getting more common). Don't you know that Mrs Hudson and the deceased Mr Hudson ran a drug cartel? (She still insists on only doing the typing and being ignorant of what was going on, but we know her better than that, don't we?) But don't mention it to her, because she'll know you got that information from me. But you can YouTube her belly-dancing. She does not like talking about her past, although I don't see why, because she led a rather exciting life. Nowadays the highlight of her days is getting a new tea set.

You are not really fond of parties. I don't understand why you were attending one. Especially one where there would be solely couples that would remind you of your status of being a single woman in your thirties. Why would you torture yourself like that? Seems like I was right in my assumption that you have masochistic tendencies.

As for this Tom guy: He sounds downright boring. Doesn't he have any other ideas for a first date than taking you to a pub? I can't see why you would be even interested in him. He's not your type. He's not like… I don't even know why you get your hopes up. He's a dog person after all and you are a cat's person. As the childish background of your blog so subtly tells...  
At least he is who he said he was – my backup check confirmed it. Seems like his older sister is the "wild" one in the family, being prosecuted once for indecent behaviour. With Tom you've managed to pick the most boring family member. Congratulations.

Since your date will have already taken place when you'll get that letter, let me guess how it went: If the weather would have permitted it, you had worn your yellow summer dress. You went to _The Fence_, which was okay for you, but you were hoping he would take you to _The Hope_, since this is your favourite pub on Cowcross Street. He ordered a beer and you a gin and tonic. At first it felt awkward, due to your nervousness. You started with some small talk, followed by boring questions from him like, "Do you have siblings? What do your parents do?"(There's an awkward moment because yours are deceased. You tried to lighten the mood with a morbid joke which went terribly wrong). Long story short: You asked each other all those silly questions that don't give you any valid information about a person. There was not much you could tell, since your life stopped being interesting after my departure. Therefore you told him about your job, which he tolerated, but he did not show any real interest in it. You found that a bit disappointing, but tried to hide it, because at least he was not grossed out by what you do for a living like most men were that you had met before. So after three beers (him) and one Gin and Tonic and one Coke (you did not want to seem like a drunk on your first date) you've decided to call it a night. He accompanied you to the underground. And when it was time to say goodbye, he was unsure if he should kiss you. You were not sure yourself, so you kissed him on the cheek. You saw disappointment flicker across his face, but chose to ignore it. You told each other you should do that again one day, but each one of you will wait for the other to make the next move. Subsequently there won't be a second date.  
How did I do? Now tell me: Is that your idea of a perfect first date? I hardly believe so.

Sherlock

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**A/N: Since some of you have asked me how long this story will be: I'm planning on doing 24 chapters. All of them are already fully or at least partly written. So it's all mapped out and the letters will get longer and more personal bit by bit. It's a constant work in progress, because if I change something in one letter, it affects all the other ones that follow. That's why it always takes some time until I post the next letter. **


	11. Out with the old in with the new

**A/N: I am so happy that you all seem to like the story. Thank you so much!  
Thank you Pipsis for being such a wonderful beta!  
Well, let's see how Molly's date with Tom really went… **

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**Out with the old in with the new **

"I have only made this letter longer because I have not had the time to make it shorter."(_Letter 16_, 1657)"  
― Blaise Pascal, _The Provincial Letters_

20th October

Dear Sherlock,

As a matter of fact I have seen the press conference about the murder in New Delhi, and I even thought, "This solution sounds like something Sherlock would have figured out." But at that point I doubted any involvement on you part, because I thought you were probably still in the Himalayas. Funny that I was right. And congratulations on solving the case!

A thought has crossed my mind the other day: Do your parents know about you not being dead? Were they in it from the beginning, or did Mycroft fill them in later? Do you even have parents? I don't know that kind of stuff about you. I hope you don't mind me babbling in my letters. I know we usually never really talked about private stuff, but since there's nothing happening at work that might intrigue you, I don't know what else to tell you. I hope this is okay.

Me calling Kitty Riley "Hello Kitty" was a reference to a cartoon character called _Hello Kitty_. I am sure you have seen it before: It looks like a white cat wearing a colourful ribbon. One can purchase all kinds of articles with that cat on it: gift cards, stuffed animals, pens, towels, bags ...

Thanks for the compliment, I appreciate it. It means a lot to me knowing that you value my work.

Why would you have given the skull a name if it didn't hold any value to you? Additionally you have the skull labelled male and called it "he" and "him". We all are more or less made from flesh and bones, yet still we are important to someone, so the excuse of him being merely bone does not count. You told me all the stuff in your flat is important to your work. How does Billy fit in there? I hardly believe he is able to help you with your deductions or offer some advice on a case. Or do you secretly rehearse _Hamlet _for your West End debut? ;-)

Do you think I did not notice that you have rearranged my books and my medical journals? Last week it took me half an hour to find the issue I was looking for. You may not believe it, but I have a system too. At least I have a bookshelf and don't pile up my books on the floor... What is wrong with my collection of DVDs? I am aware that it may not contain films you would watch, but I like romantic comedies. Do you even have DVDs? I've never seen some at Baker Street.  
As for the dead flowers: I am just not good with plants. I constantly forget to water them, so they die after a short time. I even managed to kill my last cactus. And no, I am not planning on conducting some experiments on them. (I've got to admit I was a bit worried you might conduct some experiments on Toby while I was at work.) I just could not find the time to throw them away and buy new ones. Although I highly doubt that the next ones will survive. Thus I am thinking about getting dried flowers instead. But since you think I have too much useless stuff in my flat, I am happy to inform you that I threw away a lot of things last weekend (including the dead plants). I went through old magazines, earrings, souvenirs and clothes that I had kept for some reason. I used to collect magazines, but now I don't even know why I kept most of them. It's not like they contain any vital information. I threw away a lot of my clothes, because I decided to buy new ones. I am sick of wearing the same clothes year in year out. Since I have not gained or lost weight significantly in the last few years (please refrain from any hurtful comment about my weight), I've had some items for years. Somehow I felt like I didn't want them anymore so I packed them into a bag and brought them to Crisis. After doing that it feels a little bit like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Clearing out my wardrobe always makes me feel liberated.

Mrs Hudson running a drug cartel?! I can't believe it! Suddenly I see her in a whole new light. Innocent Mrs Hudson doesn't seem so innocent anymore. No wonder she liked having you and John for tenants. She seems to enjoy having danger in the house. I YouTubed the video of her belly dancing and I am … almost scandalized. Mrs Hudson was Mata Hari, kind of… But somehow it is fitting. I agree: Mrs Hudson is way too canny not to know in which kind of business she was involved. You'll have to tell me the story of how the two of you met one day. I'd love to hear it.

What do you mean with me having masochistic tendencies? What's that supposed to mean? Like most people I don't like getting hurt – neither physically nor emotionally.

Thank you for reminding me of my single-status. But has it ever crossed your mind that maybe I like being single and prefer to be on my own? Not all women's purpose in life is to marry, build a house and have children. I think that's a very chauvinistic point of view.

I don't know how you came to think that I don't like parties. I have never said so. So why do you think so?

You did a backup check on Tom? How could you do that? You did not even know his full name. You don't have to check up on the men I am dating. I am perfectly capable of getting an idea of somebody. I don't need any help from you in that department.

Thank you for the accurate description of my date with Tom. (This is meant to be sarcastic!) How do you know about my yellow summer dress? Did you rummage around my closet while staying in my bedroom? Did you go through all my stuff? Does the word privacy mean nothing to you?  
The date was not as terrible as you painted it out. Maybe to you "normal" things like having a good conversation are boring, but for me they are not. I like listing to people talking about their lives and getting to know them through that. It was definitely not the worst date I had ever had. But I admit that it was not perfect. But not everything has to be perfect. Hardly anything is ever perfect. Especially if you want something to be so. And since you don't even date, you are not one to judge. If the pub was such a boring idea, where would you take me for our first date?

But you were wrong: I texted him and we met again for lunch the other day and I had a good time. Since he knew I had known you he asked some questions about you (like what kind of person you were or how we got to know each other and if I thought any of the stuff the tabloids had written about you were true). I told him a bit about you and what I thought of Kitty Riley. Don't worry I did not go into detail about your death. I merely told him some general stuff about your job and some cases. Tom is a good listener. We agreed to meet again someday for lunch, but I think it is clear now that there won't be anything more between us than friendship.

So, I have to go to bed, because it's getting late and I have the early shift tomorrow.

Take care!  
Yours,

Molly


	12. Hamburg

**A/N: My dear readers, again thank you for your kind words and support. I love reading them!**

**Thank you Pipsis! **

* * *

**Hamburg**

"You deserve a longer letter than this; but it is my unhappy fate seldom to treat people so well as they deserve."  
― Jane Austen

28th November

Molly,

My quest has brought me to Germany; more precisely to Hamburg. I was successful in bringing down Moriarty's most important middleman in Germany. He hid himself behind the persona of a stevedore named Jakob Prendergast, but his habit of visiting a certain establishment on the Reeperbahn finally gave him away. During one of my countless stakeouts at the harbour (it's so annoying not having my homeless network at hand to do the footwork), I spotted a ship by the name _Gloria Scott_. It made me realize that the case of Gloria Scott seems like it has taken place decades and not years ago. Memory, if not stored properly in a mind palace, is a peculiar thing.  
Anyway, since it was easier to find Moriarty's middleman than I had expected, I had some spare time to solve one of Mycroft's boring cases. Normally I don't bother to waste my time with stuff like that, but since I want to remain in Mycroft's good graces, I agreed to help with this one. The newspapers named the incident _The Mysterious Jeweller_, when in reality it was more about a Russian dignitary. A certain Mister Trepoff (a jeweller and member of a diamond smuggling ring whose boss was a Russian dignitary) was convicted of his wife's murder. Since the trial was already in progress, I had to become a member of the jury in order to set the sloppy police work right. All other jurors were blinded by the lies of Mr Trepoff's lawyer. They all thought Mr Trepoff was innocent. No one was able to see behind the departmental intrigue inside the police and draw the right conclusions. The evidence showed (without the shadow of a doubt) that Mr Trepoff was indeed the killer of his wife – he killed her in quite a ruthless way I might add. I could convince the other members of the jury that they were wrong and Mr Trepoff was convicted of the murder of his wife and we could find evidence against the Russian dignitary. It was rather a dull exercise, but now Mycroft owes me and that was worth it.

Since you tend to babble when talking to me face to face it was to be expected that your letters would not be any different. Thus you rambling in your letters does not annoy me any more than it does when we talk to each other in person.

Of course I have parents. As a doctor you should know that I could not have been born otherwise. But if you mean if my parents are still alive: Yes, they are happily living their life. Or so I am told… And yes, they know I am not deceased. I guess otherwise my mother would kill me herself upon my return. Of course you do not know such trivial things about my background. Why would you? The topic has never arisen before and I've never seen it as relevant to tell you about them. And I still would not have, had you not asked me. Please now refrain from questions like, "What did they do for a living?" or "How long have they been married?" because this really holds no relevance. I share some genetic material with them, but apart from that, they are very different from me – and Mycroft on that part.

I am not really sure to which compliment you are referring to. But if you mean that I wrote you are a competent pathologist, it was not a compliment, but a mere state of fact.

Surely, I labelled Billy as male, because he is the skull of a male homo sapiens sapiens, as you (being a doctor) have undoubtedly realized. Of course Billy is essential to my work as consulting detective: He can be useful as a paper weight or to hide cigarettes, and he is a good listener. He never has objections to my theories – unlike other animated objects in my flat. And no, I have no intention of portraying a melancholic, hallucinating Danish prince. If I were prince Hamlet his father would have never been killed, because I would have foreseen Claudius' plan. Which was quite uninventive, I might add.

You have so much useless stuff in your flat, because so many things hold some kind of sentimental value to you. For instance, I don't see the use of photographs of family members. One knows how your relatives look, so why put up some pictures of them? Additionally most photos are lies: They show people how they have never been – smiling, glorified, in flattering light. Those staged photographs are lies in frames.

Maybe it's a good idea to get dried flowers – they are already dead; even you could not do them any more harm.

No, I don't own any DVDs (at least not that I remember). I cannot stand the stuff that's on TV, henceforth I have no interest in buying some disc so I can watch that nonsense whenever I wish.

I have to admit the thought of conducting experiments on your tomcat has crossed my mind, but don't worry, I would have never hurt him, and I would have rewarded him for his collaboration. Additionally I did not have the proper equipment for the experiment I had in mind.

I am glad to read you got rid of some of your clothes. Some items in your possession are hideous. I am sure some of the homeless people will be happy to wear a cardigan with cherry-print. I am looking forward meeting someone from my homeless network in some overly cheerful coloured blouse of yours (that was meant to be sarcastic, in case you couldn't guess). Most of the time the cardigan you used to wear did not fit the blouse, so I hope you'll be more considerate when buying new ones. Why should I make a "hurtful" comment about your weight? I only state facts, nothing more. And you are right: You have not gained or lost weight considerably in the time I have known you. When you buy new clothes, you should maybe ask a female or gay friend for help, because you more or less lack any aesthetics in the clothes department. And you should buy clothes that are your size. Stop wearing all that baggy stuff. You have nothing to hide.

With you having masochistic tendencies I merely meant that you tend to torture yourself willingly (reading those articles that make you sad, visiting Mrs Hudson although it pains you, watching romantic comedies although your love life is practically non-existent, ...) and tend to fall for men who are either bad for you, beyond your reach or unavailable.

No one prefers to be on their own. So no, it has never crossed my mind that you would. My statement was not in any way chauvinistic. You know very well that men and women are equally useful or useless to me. Women are equally cruel as men. The most winning woman I ever knew serves a life-long prison sentence for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money. I did not imply that a woman's purpose in life is to marry and have children. I did not make a general assumption, but was only talking about you. You are obviously looking for a partner. To be clear: This is not an accusation, but a state of fact.

My conclusion that you don't like parties derives from my observation of you when attending one. From your behaviour at last year's Christmas party I could deduce that you are not very fond of that kind of social event. You did not seem to enjoy it very much. You tend to be self-conscious and nervous when in a group of people (even if they are friends) and try to cover it up. And you feel the need to make conversation, which usually does not end very well (I vaguely remember you making a joke about Mrs Hudson's bad hip). Thus my conclusion that you are not fond of social gatherings.

I don't see why you are surprised that I did a backup check on Tom. Given your history with men I thought it wise. Isn't that considerate of me? Obviously you are not capable of finding yourself a suitable man. You are way too gullible and credulous, hence an easy prey for people who want to exploit you. Don't chide me for stating Tom was boring. You've said so yourself, "He is nice." Nice equals boring. Which woman would want a man who is nice?

I did not "rummage around" your closet. I was just bored one day and had nothing else to do after I had arranged your books and medical journals. Do you have any idea what kind of torture it was for me to stay at yours those few days after the fall?! I was bored to hell.

I've never said I find a good conversation boring. But I can hardly imagine that you and Mr Nice-guy had something that is generally considered as a "good conversation" going on. On the contrary, I value an insightful conversation, but that is hardly possible with most people. You've written that it wasn't your worst date. I don't even want to imagine what your worst date had been like... Why are you asking me where I would take you to our first date? We won't go on a date. I don't to dating. But if I did, I would come up with something much more inventive than a drink at a local pub. I would find something we are both interested in.

I hope you're happy that you proved me wrong and met him again. You've found yourself a platonic lunch-date. Congratulations!

Since I am running out of paper I'll have to stop.

Sherlock


	13. Christmas

**A/N: I hope no one will be appalled by the way Molly and Sherlock talk about suicide in the next 2 chapters. I solely wanted them to have a more or less scientific talk (based on statistics) in a Sherlock-kind-of-way. It is in no way my intention to downplay the serious topic of self-harm and suicide. **

**To Saoirse75: I don't know. I guess the "jury thing" was a mistake and to cover it up the just added the sentence that it was unusual. After all, they messed up some research about the Underground in TEH as well. One might not believe it, but they are human after all ;-) Thanks for your review! **

**Pipsis, cheers! ;-) **

* * *

**Christmas **

"More than kisses, letters mingle souls."  
― John Donne

25th December

Dear Sherlock,

It seems to me like you are quite busy. I find it very impressive that in between dismantling Moriarty's network you'd find time to solve cases. _The Mysterious Jeweller _sounds like a title John would have given the case on his blog, don't you think? I found some articles about the case on the internet. It seems like it had been a major thing in Germany. Unbelievable how that was all linked to this Russian dignitary in Odessa! I am happy to read that you've tracked down another one of Moriarty's men. Could you get a better idea of how vast his web of criminals really is? I can perfectly imagine the smug smile on your face when telling Mycroft you took care of the business he had asked you about. He will not like owing you.

There was a ship named _Gloria Scott_? I haven't thought about Gloria Scott for some time either. I agree, it feels like our first case together has been in another lifetime. Of course it was not our first case together as in together, but... you know what I mean. Poor Ms Scott... she deserved a better boyfriend than Mr Armitage. I am sure she imagined her romantic cruise with him to turn out differently. We should tell John about this case at one point. I think it would make a thrilling blog entry.

How can you say that the story of the lives of your parents holds no relevance? Your parents and your past are what have shaped you and helped make you the man you are now. Maybe you would be a totally different person, had you been raised by different people. We all share more than just some genes with our parents. Even if we don't want to admit it, but most people become more and more like their parents when they get older. I hate to say it out loud (or write it down in this case), but I have realized that I have become more and more like my mother in the last few years. A boyfriend of mine once told me that he thought that I was a lot like my mother. No need to say I refused to have sex with him that night.

I liked your explanation why Billy is essential for your cases. Now I definitely know you are just joking. Just admit it: Even you have one piece of sentimental value in your flat. I don't think having photographs of family members or friends has anything to do with not knowing how they look like. About you saying they are lies, because they don't show how a person really is: Of course they don't, but they mostly show a person in the best light, and I guess that's what we want to think of our family and friends and how we want to remember them: at their best. It's like with memory: After some time you tend to forget the bad things and only remember the good ones. Like you've said: the memory is a peculiar thing. Maybe we put up pictures of our loved ones to feel like we are near them, like they are here with us, although they are far away, or even dead. When I feel down, looking at the pictures of my dad and me gives me strength and comfort. And maybe because one tends to remember the good things, you consider this remembrance as lies, but I say, "Then let them be lies!" I think people need that kind of lies. Sometimes the truth is just not good enough. "I don't want reality, I want magic!"

I followed your advice and bought some dried flowers. Like you've said: they are already dead and I have experience with dead things. I chose blue hydrangea and white snowball bush and put them into a vase on the coffee table. It looks very nice.

I am happy to inform you that I did buy myself new clothes and I am pretty sure that even you would approve of some of them. I even bought some skirts, because Greg (Lestrade) told me the other day that I look nice in skirts, so I thought, "Why not?" But don't worry I did buy some new cardigans with fruit-prints too ;-) Actually I like the idea of homeless people running around in cherry-print cardigans. It would turn the grey, foggy London into a more colourful place.  
I know you are quite proud of only stating facts (like if I have gained weight or not), but sometimes it's better to keep the facts to yourself; especially if they have something to do with a woman and her weight. Women don't want you telling them when they have gained weight.

Look who's talking about masochistic tendencies: You were the one torturing yourself by going to your own funeral! And you can't tell me that it was not hurtful for you to watch your friends grieve. Apart from that it was also careless to attend it. Imagine what would have happened if someone had seen you! All hard work could have been in vain and your plan and reputation (still) ruined.

"No one prefers to be on his own?" Therefore you would like to have a partner as well? I beg your pardon, I take back what I said about you being chauvinistic. It is true I have never seen you treat a woman with less respect than a man.  
Maybe I want a man who is nice. Given my history with men – as you've so wonderfully put it – does that surprise you? Maybe that's exactly why I am looking for a nice guy. But I don't think it's fair of you to judge my taste in men. Not all men I have dated have been bad for me. For instance my first friend in college was a very nice and considerate guy who had a very good influence on me. I was just unlucky with the last one, and like I've said before, Jim... Moriarty was not even my boyfriend; we only went out three times.

Well, I have to tell you that your deduction about me not liking parties it wrong. You can't draw a valuable conclusion from an event as horrible as last year's Christmas party (isn't it ironic that it was precisely one year ago?). I cannot believe you brought that up! But since you did, I'll have to elaborate on it, I guess. Of course I did not enjoy the Christmas party. I was looking forward to spending an evening with my friends and maybe talking to you about something different than a case. And then you were all moody and tried your best to make everyone feel miserable. And like with everything else you got your mind set on, you have succeeded again. You know very well that your words have hurt me. You have apologized and I accepted it. I forgave you a long time ago, but still it was cruel of you to do that. You were just dumping all your frustration on me and I don't think I deserved that.

Doing a backup check on my friends is not considerate, Sherlock, it's sticking your nose into other people's business. It is considered as being high-handed. You'll have to learn to trust people and let them make their own mistakes and learn from them. You cannot always protect the people you care about and keep them from getting hurt. You cannot control everything, no matter how much you might want to.

Well, I am sorry that staying with me was such a torture for you. Just though you know: It was no birthday party for me either. I tried to help you, but you did not make it easy for both of us. I understand that it was a very difficult time for you and I wanted to be there for you, but you would not let me. That's okay, I know you are not very fond of affection, but I don't think it's fair of you to say staying with me was "torture." I did my best under the circumstances and I think I deserve some credit for that.

I can't believe time went by so fast and it is Christmas again. It almost feels like it has only been yesterday that we were invited for the Christmas party at Baker Street. Where and how are you spending the holiday? Is there snow where you are? It was snowing a bit yesterday, so at least the rooftops are white, which looks nice. But today it is too cold for snow. The heating broke down in the morgue, so I have to work with my coat on. At least I don't have to worry about my "patients" catching a cold... I am working a double shift today, so my colleagues can be with their families. Since I have no pressing matters to attend today that's okay for me. I met with Mrs Hudson and Greg for lunch and we exchanged some gifts. Mrs Hudson had knit me a scarf. You would hate it: It is very long with pink and black stripes. I love it! Since it is so cold in the pathology her present comes in very handy. Too bad I can't wear gloves while doing an autopsy. As you know Christmas is one of the busiest times of the year in the morgue (the most suicides). So far all suicides have been the usual ones (pills, hanging, jumping from a bridge), therefore no interesting stories for you. But rest assured, should there be one that is at least slightly intriguing I will let you know.

I know you don't like that particular holiday, but still... I wanted to give you a small present. Since it is not so easy to find a present that would fit into an envelope, I had to improvise a bit. I know you've said you found them silly and useless and they are "lies in frames", but I thought it could be a little piece of home that you could take with you on your journeys. I hope you'll like it.

Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes. Wherever you are.

Yours,  
Molly

P.S.: And a happy New Year!


	14. Berlin

**A/N: More than 100 reviews?! You guys are AWESOME! **

**I am glad people seem to like the quotations at the beginning of the chapters. It took quite some time to find the right ones. I am happy the research paid off ;-) Just though you know: The one I used in this chapter is one of my all-time favourites. Enjoy! **

**Thank you Pipsis, for making it better ;-) **

* * *

**Berlin **

"Sometimes one can't believe how much space there is between the lines." – Stanislaw Jercy Lec

8th January

Molly,

Please ignore the design of the post card. They did not sell any paper in the shop where I bought it, and the only other one they had had was one with two copulating bears in front of the Reichstag on it and I thought that was even more inappropriate than this one.

Concerning last year's Christmas party: You don't have to elaborate on anything I write. It's not like I'm forcing you. You don't have to write me at all, if you don't want to. I refuse to be a nuisance, so we can stop this ridiculous letter-writing anytime. It's not like I'm depending on it. It is merely an efficient way of

9th January

Molly,  
I was interrupted yesterday while writing to you and now that I wanted to continue and while reading what I had written so far, I might have realized that my words were a little harsh and my mind was clouded by ... emotions. You may be right that my conclusion about you hating parties was drawn from false data. It was not my intention to mock you on that night. That's not true. It was my intention to mock you, but it was never my intention to hurt or embarrass you, which I obviously did. It still remains true what I said after that: I am sorry. (Don't ever show John that I wrote that down. He'll rub it in my face for the rest of my life.)

As you can clearly see I have managed to buy some new paper. They sold stationery with kittens on it in the store where I bought this. It looked a lot like the background of your blog. Ghastly!

I am in Berlin now and I have to say that I preferred Hamburg. I cannot really tell you why, but maybe it is because Hamburg lies by the sea and during my time there it had always been grey, foggy and windy.

Studies show that education is only responsible up to 50% for what kind of person one will become. Therefore if I had been raised by someone else, I would not be a totally different person. This is all a big "what if", because psychology is a field that works with parameters that can hardly be measured. Thus it is all more or less useless speculation in which I won't participate. It's the same as me saying you probably would be a different person if your father was still alive. Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn't. There is no way to find out. Therefore useless thoughts to occupy your mind with. And believe me when I tell you: Mycroft and I are nothing like our parents. Why does it go without saying that you would refuse to have sex with your boyfriend, because he said you were like your mother? I honestly don't know what to say to that.

Happy family portraits are prevarications, nothing more, but I see why you would want that. I understand why you would want to remember your father as a good man. I can only blame the Christmas season for your overly sentimental perception on the topic, but maybe you are right: People need their little white lies to keep going. And maybe that's where your strength derives from; from your habit to see the good in people. Sometimes I envy you for your ignorance.  
Quoting that line of _A Streetcar named Desire _just proves it again. Leave it up to you to find the sole fairytale-like line in an otherwise quite depressing play. And again I blame it on the Christmas season that generally makes people overly sentimental.

Of course Lestrade thinks you look "nice" in a skirt although I am sure that "nice" was not the word that came to his mind when he saw you in a skirt for the first time. You do realize that he is sexually interested in you, don't you? Is his divorce finally through or is he still living the illusion that it will all work out in the end and his wife will stop cheating on him? He is not the right man for you. He may evoke in you your helper syndrome, but don't fall for it. You cannot save him. He can only help himself. Now that I think about it, that's another tendency of yours: falling for men who need to be saved.

I don't see why you are having a problem with me stating what you weigh. Your weight is fine according to the BMI – even a bit below. A few pounds more would not do you any bad and no ordinary man would even realize if you'd gain a few pounds.

I can see your point, but I did not go to my funeral because I wanted to torture myself. I knew what was awaiting me there. I went there for my pure amusement. Ever since I first read _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _I wanted to attend my own funeral. I was pretty sure that was a once in a lifetime chance, so I took it. The only reason I went there was to satisfy my curiosity. It was in no way risky. I knew exactly what I was doing and I am perfectly capable of making myself invisible. There was no chance anyone could have spotted me, otherwise I would not have gone there. I would not have jeopardized the plan. By the way: Why did you not attend my funeral?

God no, I don't want to have a partner! I am the exception to the rule. I am married to my work, as you know. And I am perfectly fine with that. I have always handled it like that and I am planning on sticking to that.  
No, you do not want a man who is nice. We both know it. Why would you have fallen for me then? I am the least nice person I know. So stop lying to yourself.

I am surprised you don't approve of me doing back up checks on your potential boyfriends. If me looking out for you is considered being high-handed then so be it. I have been called worse. I may not be able to control everything, but I can at least try. Still I think you should stick to what I have told you before and avoid any future attempts at a relationship. It will only bring you heartache and pain, since you are a very emotional person.

I think you misunderstood me saying that it was torture staying at yours. I did not mean that being in the same flat with you was torture, but being cooped up for days was. This had nothing to do with you. Not being able to leave the house for days on end always feels like torture to me even if I am alone. I did not mean I conceived your company as torture.

You writing a letter to me exactly one year after last year's Christmas party is not ironic, but purely coincidental. It's so annoying people can't use the term correctly. Please keep that in mind next time you'll use it.  
I was still in Hamburg at Christmas and I spent New Year's there as well. We did not have snow, but since I am not particularly fond of it, I did not care. I agree, your description of the scarf Mrs Hudson made for you sounds like I would not have liked it. It sounds like a piece of clothing coming straight from hell or out of your closet (This is meant to be a joke).  
That's the only thing I like about Christmas: a chance to see some innovative suicides. But even those have decreased over the last few years and people get more and more less inventive when killing themselves. Your writing about your Christmas shift just proves my point. If nothing else, the way I have supposedly killed myself must have been a clue for everyone who knew me that I could not be dead for real. I would never choose such a mundane way of killing myself like jumping off a hospital roof.

True, I don't care about Christmas in general, because I don't see why one should celebrate the birth of a baby on the 25th of December when in reality it had not been born on that date. They just picked that date, because it was a popular one in pagan religious celebrations. Therefore I spent it like every year since I have moved out of my parent's house (except for last year, or course): not celebrating it. Anyway, thank you for the photograph of Billy. I figure you have let yourself into my flat under false pretences the last time you were visiting Mrs Hudson. I cannot use it as paperweight, but it is almost as good as a listener as the real skull. Thank you.

Sherlock


	15. Wish you were here

**A/N: As usual: My thanks to you all. It's a joy writing for you. And I am happy you're enjoying it – especially because English is not my native tongue… so I always feel a bit insecure…  
I know you're all curious about Molly's response, but I think it's time to have a look into her journal again… **

* * *

**Wish you were here**

"To write is human, to get mail, divine!"  
― Susan Lendroth

12th February  
I know, dear Journal, that I am a lazy writer. So much time passes between my entries, but sometimes when I want to write something I am too busy and then when I'd have some time I just don't want to. And since I fear I tend to abuse my letter conversations with Sherlock for therapy, I don't need to use you so often. Additionally I prefer to have a dialogue with Toby (well, it's more of a monologue, of course) sometimes. But today I felt like I wanted to write again, because the more letters I get from Sherlock, the more confused I become. Like the other day:

When I opened the last envelope Sherlock had sent me, I almost chocked on my coffee: There were a letter and post card from Berlin in it. The post card showed an aerial perspective of Berlin and had "Ich wünschte du wärst hier" in pink letters written on it. I looked up the words and found out that it meant "wish you were here" in German. Well… This could only have been a mistake, couldn't it? For a second my heart sped up and I felt myself blushing. But as soon as I turned the card over, my heart rate slowed down again, because the first thing Sherlock told me was to ignore the design of the post card, because he did not have any paper and that card was the only one he could buy. This was a more than reasonable explanation for the peculiar post card. For a moment I had thought Sherlock had lost his mind. Or was playing an evil trick on me. With him you'll never know.

Obviously he was upset about me writing "I have to elaborate" on something he wrote. He totally got it the wrong way and was his usual sulking self. But then he got interrupted and continued the letter on the next day (this time on plain white paper again). His mood had improved considerably, and he more or less said he was sorry for the harsh words at the beginning of the letter. This is more or less the typical conversation we're having. In one sentence he is almost nice and charming and in the next he is back to his rude and sarcastic self. At times he is even joking, and then he is insulting me. Sometimes he states things that sound suspiciously like a compliment. I don't think he even realizes that he does that. Now and then I wish I would know what is going on in this complicated mind of his. Although sometimes I am not sure if he himself even knows. And if Sherlock has trouble dealing with his mind, how would a "normal" person like me feel? I would probably go mad. He may be brilliant, but I think he pays a very high price for his intelligence. It must be so hard for him to keep his busy mind under control, never being able to just not think. That's probably his curse.

He did not tell me how long he estimates his mission will take or how vast Jim's, I mean, Moriarty's network is. I figure he does not want to let me into too many details, because as he's told me in one of his first letters, the more people were involved the more dangerous it would be for him.

At first I was not sure what to write, because there is not really something exciting going on in my life. The excitement more or less left together with the world's only consulting detective. Thus I can only tell him "boring" stuff like what I am or the others are doing. I know Sherlock doesn't like small talk, but so far he has not complained. To my surprise he answers most of my questions and even asks some in return; by far not as many as I ask him, but that was to be expected, wasn't it? Still I was astonished that he answered most of my questions in such an elaborate way. In person he hardly ever talks more than he has to. Don't get me wrong: Sherlock loves to hear himself speak, but only to show off and impress people with his brilliance. He usually keeps quiet about personal matters or filters such conversations as a whole. But through his letters I can get a glimpse of the private side of Sherlock Holmes from time to time.

With every letter it felt easier, almost natural to write him. I felt myself opening up more and more, and it became simpler for me to put him into his place. But maybe that's just because it's generally easier to do that on paper than in person. This single degree of separation afforded by pen and paper gives me both opportunity and courage; opportunity to finally have a more or less normal conversation with him without stammering, and courage to put him into his place and let him know when he is hurting me or treating me badly. Who would have thought that I would become the sort-of-pen pal of the world's only consulting detective? Sometimes I have to smile or laugh because of what he writes, like the other day when he was honestly confused why it was not a good thing to tell a girl that she was like her mother. While reading it I could almost imagine him staring at the paper, not knowing what had hit him ;-) I am still amazed at times how ignorant he can be about ordinary or personal matters.

In his last letter he even apologized again for the fiasco at last year's Christmas party. Can you believe it? And not in a sarcastic way, but I am sure he really meant it. I have to admit I was a bit taken aback. I thought he might have decided to forget the whole incident.

He had not asked me about it, but I told him about the others – how they have been so far, what they are doing. He commented on Mrs Hudson, Anderson and Greg (though he acted as if he did not know about whom I was talking about until I clarified that by "Greg" I meant Lestrade; I am not sure if he just pretends he does not remember his name, or if it is just a symptom of his usual ignorance of stuff he considers as "boring"), but he had nothing to say to my story about John. And normally Sherlock Holmes has an opinion about everything. He has only mentioned John once so far when telling me not to show something he wrote to him. And he said it in a humorous way. I can imagine that he does not speak about his best friend, because it hurts too much. After all he had to leave him behind with a bag of lies instead of a proper goodbye.

Although I told Sherlock about the articles on the subject of his suicide (he can google them after all), I did not tell him about the reactions of my colleagues at the hospital. They all look at me with a pitiful expression on their faces and talk behind closed doors. As far as I know there are two sorts of people at the hospital: The ones that do not go up on the roof anymore, because IT happened there and the others who love to go up there because of it. They take the new colleagues up there with them and tell the story of his tragic death. Useless to say that the story becomes more and more elaborated every time. It is disgusting, and it makes me sick! How can people be so disrespectful? I did not tell Sherlock any of this, because I don't want to bother him. I am sure he already has enough things to deal with. He does not need a whining pathologist too. The situation at Bart's is something I'll have to deal with myself. I could take it until now, so I will be able to cope with it for some time more. Additionally it will get better with time. People will find new gossip.

Through the letters I get a glimpse of the person behind his consulting detective persona. I am always surprised when he writes stuff like "Ever since I have first read _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _I wanted to attend my own funeral." I don't even think he realizes how much it says about him. I guess this sentence struck me, because one tends to forget so easily that even Sherlock Holmes was an ordinary little boy once. Well, he definitely never was "ordinary", but he was a small boy who loved adventure stories and whose dad read to him. He asked me why I did not attend his funeral and I don't know what to say. Sure, I know why I did not go, but can I tell him the whole truth? Can I be totally honest with him and tell him how much it would have hurt me to see his – our – friends grieving him? Can I admit to him that I was not strong enough to deal with it, that I was not sure if I could have managed to keep up this horrible charade? I don't want him to doubt me or the decision he made by choosing me as his confident. As I have already said: He already has a lot of baggage, I don't want to add to the pile. I want to make things easier for him, not make them worse.

The letters arrive in a very irregular pattern from different corners of the world. He always writes to me where he is. I try to follow his movements on the map. He has travelled such a long way! He has almost been through whole of Europe and even in New Delhi and the Himalayas. He does not specify what he does exactly and I don't ask. Maybe it is not safe for him to tell, or he thinks I would not understand. I know that I would not like what he is doing. I don't have any illusions that tracking down Moriarty's network does include killing people. And maybe that's why I don't ask. I don't want him to tell me that he has killed someone. I know that it would be in self-defence (and maybe not for the first time) or to keep us safe. Yes, that's it: Maybe I am afraid to ask if he already had to kill someone, because he is not only doing it for himself, but to keep his friends safe. And I would not want anyone to kill for me (or die for me). So I refrain from asking about his mission. If he will tell me one day, I will comment on it of course, but until then I will leave it up to him if he wants to talk about it.

In between dismantling Moriarty's network he even has the time to solve some cases. Well, he probably does not have the time, but take the time. I guess he misses solving cases, but of course he would never admit that. And I dare not ask if he does. Not that his mission is not a case, it is probably the biggest one he has got so far, but I think it is still something very different; Especially because he does not have someone to help him. He is all alone in this and that makes me sad. Especially when I wrote him at Christmas, I felt sorry for him. I wondered where he was and if he was doing fine. No one should be alone at Christmas, even if you don't celebrate it. Sherlock played it down, of course, saying he did not care about the holiday, but I know that's not entirely true. Just as it is not true that he does not have friends, or care about people. I know he does, maybe even more than we all give him credit for. Like I've said before: We all don't know what is going on in his brilliant mind.

So although Sherlock says he does not care about Christmas I could not help myself and sent him a small present. I know, I should have learned something by last year's fiasco, but I wanted to give him something. At least this time he can't humiliate me in front of our friends. Of course the present needed to be something light and thin that would fit into a normal envelope. I thought about what would make him happy and what he would probably like. Not so easy with our detective… While reading through some previous letters of him, I had the idea of giving him some piece of home. So I took a picture of his friend Billy the skull and sent it to him. Sherlock does not admit that he misses London, but I bet he does. I wanted my gift to be something that would remind him of home and that would be an incentive for him to get back to us. I thought a photograph would be something he could take with him wherever he goes – a small piece of home in his pocket so to say.

And that leads me directly to my problem: I don't know if this letter writing with Sherlock is such a good thing anymore. If it ever was a good thing to begin with… Don't get me wrong, I love reading his letters, because it feels a bit like he is here with me. I can almost hear his condescending voice and see his sharp gaze fixed on me when he is chiding me for asking silly questions. But that's exactly the point: After Sherlock's departure I was determined to move on and find myself a suitable man and be happy with him. Out of sight, out if mind so to say. Now what? The thought of getting a new letter is haunting me every day. It's almost worse than when he was still alive... He still is alive... You know what I mean... I just don't know if it is healthy for me to keep it up. But how should I end it? "Dear Sherlock, I don't want to be your pen pal anymore, because it only makes me love you more, and I was determined to forget my silly crush on you. Yours, Molly" Maybe not… I don't want to let him down. I just can't. I know he must be going through a tough time, even if he does not say so. Why else would he write at all? I don't dare to stop writing him, giving him the impression that I don't care about him anymore, or that I have abandoned him. I guess he is writing me, because he has no one else to turn to. So how can I be so cruel to turn away from him, just because it would be easier for me? I can't even bear the thought of it. Sometimes I wonder if my selflessness is a pathology. Isn't it ironic that I am actually on the same page with Sherlock at this point, in that I don't like having feelings at all? He would be so proud of me using the term ironic correctly. I am constantly torn between looking forward to the next letter and hating myself for it. How did I become even more dependent on him although he is away?

I've tried to distract myself by going out, meeting with friends and even getting to know new people, but somehow my mind always drifts back to Sherlock. I've tried to date Tom and I really wanted it to work; he was nice, caring, a good listener, … But maybe that was the problem: I wanted it to work too badly. Maybe Tom and I could have become an item when we had met another time, or before I had met Sherlock. But now it just doesn't work. I like to spend time with him, and I appreciate our lunch dates, but that's as far as it goes and ever will. He seems to be okay about that. I think… We have never openly discussed it, but I think we don't need to. We understand each other. Sue told him about Sherlock (she told him that he had been a close friend of mine – which is more or less a lie, but it's better than her telling him the truth: That he was a weird guy on whom I had a he crush on and whom I occasionally helped with cases and who did not acknowledge me except when he needed something) and I figure Tom interprets my distant behaviour as mourning a close friend. He probably thinks I need some time to get over it. If he only knew… I am still wondering myself when I will get over Sherlock Holmes.


	16. New Year's Resolutions

**A/N: Thank you all for your support and reviews – I appreciate you spending your precious time on reading and reviewing my story. I know how busy one is at this time of year ;-) **

**Well, then on with the letters… **

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**New Year's resolutions **

"Your letter filled the hole in my day like a key. Turn it."  
― Bill Callahan

18th February

Dear Sherlock,  
I am glad to hear that you are doing okay so far and that you are sticking to your Grinch-y attitude towards Christmas. It's a comfort to know that in a world of change some things remain the same. Do you have any New Year's resolutions that you know you'll never keep? I have my usual one: drinking less coffee.

I agree: The postcard with the two copulating bears would have been even weirder. Have you been to Berlin before? Had you been to any city that you have visited in the last few months before? Did you do a lot of travelling when you were young? I mean, you are still young, but… you know what I mean, don't you?

Thank you for apologizing for what you've said last year at the Christmas party. I appreciate it, I really do. I know this kind of thing does not come easy for you. Don't worry it would have never crossed my mind to show any of your letters to anyone else. They are just between you and me. They are private and no one else's business. Like a diary. Yes, you've hurt my feelings, but I've already forgiven you. You know that, don't you? I just cannot be mad at you for long. Maybe that should have been my New Year's resolution – learning to stay mad at you for longer.

Of course we could not say what would have happened if you would have had other parents, but still I find it funny sometimes to play a little what-if-game. I am sure I would be a different person if my father was still alive. Our experiences and the people we meet shape us, they change us. They challenge, break, hurt, help, love or support us and sometimes they help us grow and make us stronger. The death of my father has influenced me greatly. It has changed me in many ways. I learned a lot about myself and my perception of life (and death) through it. I learned to value the little things and that there is nothing more important than spending time with the people you love and letting them know that they are loved. Everyone has instances in their lives that change them irrevocably and I am sure you are no exception to the rule in this case.

Let me give you an advice: If you fancy a girl, don't ever tell her she is like her mother. Women don't like it at all when their boyfriends compare them to their mothers. I am not so sure if you and Mycroft really don't have anything in common with your parents. I'll be the judge of that when I'll meet them.

You amaze me time and time again how you manage to turn a compliment into an insult…

Greg (Lestrade) is not "sexually interested" in me. I know he likes me, but we are just friends. There's nothing sexual about it. We've known each other since my first day at St. Bart's and we've worked together on a lot of cases since then. I value him and I guess the same things goes for him, but that's all. Nothing more. He may flirt with me occasionally, but he's not serious about it. I guess he sees me as a little sister, and he's a bit like an older brother for me. Apropos Greg: his divorce is through. I don't know if he is happy or sad about it. Maybe a bit of both. He refuses to talk about it – at least so far. Maybe he will one evening in a pub under the influence of beer. All men are the same: They only find the courage to talk about their feelings when inebriated.

I am not suffering from a helper syndrome. Just because I feel the need to help people and care about them does not make it pathologic. And why are we constantly analysing my taste in men? I don't think I want to talk about that with you. Especially because we have quite different opinions on that matter.

Telling a woman what she weighs is about the same as telling her she is like her mother: not good. Women are sensitive about the subject of weight and don't want men to comment on it – only if they tell her she has lost weight. So better keep your observations about women gaining weight to yourself.

I don't believe you. You did not go to your funeral only out of curiosity. I understand that it may have been part of the reason why you went, but... I liked _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _too, although my favourite character was not Tom, but Huckleberry Finn. Back to the topic of your funeral: I did not go there, because I had to work. We were understaffed that week, and I could not turn Mike down. He had already covered most of the shifts in that week. Additionally I hate funerals – even if they are fake. And I knew you were not dead, so I thought it would not matter if I did not go. I did not think anyone would even realize that I was not there.

We both know you are the exception to the rule in many cases and I know you love your work (like I love mine), but there's more to life than work. Work is not there for us when we get sick or need a shoulder to lean on. It does not keep us warm at night and it does not hold our hands when we need support. I think it's very important to be passionate about one's job, but it should not be one's sole purpose in life.

Compared to you, everyone is a "very emotional person." Sorry, that was rude of me to say. Yes, I may be a very empathic person, but I can't help it. That's just the way I am. I know you well enough to not try to tell you what to do, since you won't listen to anyone but yourself.

Thank you for clarifying what you meant with staying at my flat being a torture for you. I know how you always need mental exultation, and I can understand that arranging my books and journals does not do the trick. My words may have come across more harshly than I had intended. You know that I would help you again anytime.

True, if you would really commit suicide, you would choose a way that would draw more attention towards you, like jumping off St Paul's Cathedral or Big Ben.

Mrs Hudson told me the other day that she wished to introduce me to her nephew Bill. She said he was a kind, young man whom she had told about me and who was curious to meet me. It was so embarrassing, because I did not know how to politely decline. I know she means well, but I don't need her to set up a date for me. I tried to tell her that I was happy by being single, but she insisted on giving him a chance and meet him for coffee. I told her I would think about it. I hope she'll forget about it 'til the next time I'll see her. I don't want to let her down, but I don't want to go on a date with her nephew either.

Toby is behaving strange. I know you're not very fond of him, and you probably don't understand since you don't have a pet, but I am really worried about him. He hardly eats anything, does not play with his toys or climb the cat tree, but hides under my bed most of the time. When I try to get him out he hisses, and he even tried to bite me at one point. It's almost like he's afraid of me. The few times he crawled out under my bed I checked if he was limping or had any visible injuries, but I could not detect any. He tries to avoid me and does not want to be petted or touched at all. As you can see his behaviour is rather peculiar. Hence I will take him to the vet tomorrow. I did not want to do it right away, afraid I was only overacting, and I hoped his behaviour would go back to normal. He has always been a very peculiar cat and very fond of his "personal space", but the way he is now makes me anxious. I tried to think what it could be that is making him act so strange, but I can't think of anything. I hope there's nothing seriously wrong with him. I cannot bear the thought of that. What if he is terminally ill? What if he is going to die? He is still so young… I cannot imagine a life without him.

Sorry, I don't want to bother you anymore with dull, whining stories about my cat. Take care!

Yours,

Molly


	17. Amsterdam

**A/N: Since this will be my last update before Christmas, I'd like to wish you all a merry Christmas! May the holiday – craziness pass you by and I hope you'll be able to enjoy the festivities with your loved ones. Thank you for being a bunch of lovely, supportive people! **

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**Amsterdam**

"An inspired letter can be as riveting as a stare. It can move us to tears, spur us to action, provoke us, uplift us, touch us. Transform us. When written from the heart, letters are dreams on paper, wishes fulfilled, desires satisfied."  
― Alexandra Stoddard, _Gift of a Letter_

20th March

Molly,

Ha, I am pretty sure you have thought you'll need to explain to me what you've meant with "Grinch-y attitude towards Christmas", but I have to disappoint you, because (believe it or not) my father used to read the stories of Theodor Seuss Geisel to me when I was a kid. Thus I knew what you were talking about, and I have to say I don't like to be compared to a furry, ugly, grumpy recluse, although I can relate to his aversion for Christmas and being a recluse.

No, I don't have any New Year's resolutions. I don't see why people make one if they have no intention of keeping it. Why would you want to reduce your intake of coffee? Apart from having an atrocious taste in clothes and lacking confidence, this is your only vice; and definitely your least annoying one. So why give it up? I find your suggestion of your other New Year's resolution way better. That would be a proper one, because it is condemned to fail. We both know you could not stay mad at me for long. Don't fool yourself.

It amazes me that even in your letters you manage to stutter and babble. I don't care about my age, so there's no need to stammer. And yes, I did quite some travelling when I was younger. I studied at different universities across Europe and attended summer courses (one in the US), although I did not participate in the lectures most of the time. As you can imagine they were boring, because mostly I knew more about the subject than the teachers. But it was a good opportunity to visit other places. I had been to most places I had to go to during my search for Moriarty's men before; like Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam ... Of course I recognize all the streets and don't need a map, because I know the layout of the cities, but being here feels different now. It's not the same. Maybe one misses one fixed point in a changing age.  
I know you did voluntary work with the Red Cross in Serbia during your studies. Apart from that, did you do any travelling when you were younger?

I am in Amsterdam right now. Moriarty's network turns out to be bigger than I thought, and it takes more time than I originally estimated. I have to admit at times it's exhausting and frustrating. Sitting for hours in a car while on a stakeout or listening to stupid phone conversations in hope to get any kind of useful information is tiresome to no end. There are days when nothing happens, and I get the feeling that I took one step forward and at least two steps back. There is still a lot to be done until I'll reach the top of the pyramid. On the other day I was so fed up with listening to the phone conversations of one of Moriarty's men that I seriously considered visiting the Anne Frank museum or even Madame Tussaud's. Now can you imagine how desperate I was!? I am in Amsterdam, because one of Moriarty's men (the one I intercept and only talks about the problems with his hooker girlfriend) owns a chain of coffee shops and launders money through them. As you might know a coffee shop in the Netherlands has hardly anything to do with coffee (although the coffee there is not bad). Therefore I spend my days spying on people who get stoned in one of those shops. Ghastly! To blend in I even purchased a bike and use it to get around the city. I am looking forward when this part of the mission is over and I can move on.

Thank you for your advice in the dating department, but I think if I did date (which I don't) I would listen to someone who has a better record. But don't worry, I hardly doubt that I will every "fancy" someone, and if I will it will be a woman not a "girl". But I will keep in mind what you said (about not talking about a woman's weight too).

Why would you meet my parents? They don't live in London. Even I don't know when I will see them again. Normally they arrive unannounced – another annoying habit of them. I almost fear they'll show up on my doorstep here in Amsterdam one day, thinking that it would be lovely to surprise me. Parents can be a nuisance.  
Surely the death of your father has influenced you since he was the only family left you'd had. But it did not change who you were. When he died you were already at an age where your personality was more or less fully developed. It may have altered your opinion about life after death, but it has not changed you as a whole.

Turning a compliment into an insult is my special gift. I trained hard to archive it.

Now let me give you some advice about men: Believe me, Lestrade does not see you in a little-sister-kind-of-way.; unless you mean as in an incest relationship. No, Lestrade is interested in you as a woman and if you don't want to get his hopes up you should set clear boundaries. Especially if you will meet him at a pub and he'll tell you about his failed marriage. He will seek comfort and take advantage of your caring nature. Don't let him get too close. He may need your support, but not your pity.  
And not all men need alcohol to talk about their feelings. I have met some individuals who felt the need to express their thoughts freely and unasked. Horrible! Why do women want men to talk about their feelings? What does it help if I articulate that I feel miserable? Talking about it does not change anything. It's like all of those psychiatrists who think that talking about it will make it better and make the problem disappear. People should talk less, but do something about their problems. Not talking about your feelings is brave, but acting according to them.  
I am glad to hear you are not interested in Lestrade, because the relationship would not last. Maybe you really start to learn something in terms of relationships.

"We" are not analysing your taste in men – it's me who is doing it. You have no right to complain about it since you brought up that topic by telling me about Tom. Henceforth I merely continued the conversation and told you about my objective observations in the hopes it would give you some new insights that might help you see your mistakes in your previous choices in men and prevent another fiasco at your future attempts at relationships.

You may be right: playing down your caring nature to a helper syndrome may be too simple. Still you should learn to say "no" from time to time. It would do you good.

I don't care if you trust the reason why I went to my funeral. Think of it whatever you want. We're even, because I don't believe you either. The pathology was understaffed in that week, but I have no doubt that Mike would have let you take the day off had you asked him to. And as for not liking funerals: Of course you would not. No one likes funerals. That's not the kind of occasion where you are expected to enjoy yourself. Additionally I don't believe that the others did not notice your absence. I think it was not wise of you to stay away. It looked suspicious.

About work not being the most important thing in life: I disagree in most cases. I never get sick and I don't need a shoulder to lean on. Since I am tall, I find it uncomfortable to have to lean down onto someone else's level. I don't feel the need to hold somebody's hand, since I am not fond of physical touch. And work does keep one warm: work brings you money, money pays the bills, amongst other things the ones for heating – hence you'll be warm.

It's not true that I never listen to anyone else. Sometimes I do listen; it's just that most things people say are useless. But I do take some advice of certain people into consideration. Talking to people who have different opinions than oneself (especially if as valuable as mine) is important. How else would you learn something new? I don't think we're that different after all. We share the same interests: dead bodies, murder, science, me, … In case you did not get it: The last one was not meant to be taken seriously.

I guess you mean when saying I would jump off Big Ben, you mean I would jump off the Elizabeth Tower (or Clock Tower, as it was known until 2012). "Big Ben" is only the nickname of the Great Bell, but commonly mistaken for being the whole tower.

Mrs Hudson wants you to go on a date with her nephew Bill?! I sincerely hope that you have turned him down, because he is definitely not the right man for you. He took over his uncle's business. What was Mrs Hudson thinking?! Living alone in Baker Street does not go well with her. Although… maybe I should not have mentioned that he is a criminal… that might make him interesting for you. Just joking. Please, stay away from him. He really is no good. Mrs Hudson is turning a blind side on his criminal activities, because he is family, but still I can't believe she wanted you to date him. Hopefully you told her "no." If not, don't meet him again, and if he starts to act suspicious let me know asap.

On the contrary: I understand that you are a single woman with not much social life and hence have a very strong connection to your cat. As you know cats are very stubborn animals that want to be left alone when sick or injured. I am sure Toby just got the flue, maybe needs some antibiotics and then he'll be fine again. As you have said, he is still a young feline and has been healthy so far. The fact that he is hiding under the bed and has no appetite is supporting my theory about the flue. Should your veterinarian turn out to be useless, I have put some names and addresses of some good ones on the next page. Just tell them you know (knew, of course) me. They will not charge you. I may not have a pet now, but I my parents used to own a dog. And since Mycroft was not very fond of it (he never had much sympathy for any living creature except himself), it became kind of my dog. Henceforth I can see how one becomes accustomed to the presence of a pet.

Sherlock


	18. Moving on

**A/N: My dear readers, I wish you a happy New Year! May 2015 be full of health, success, fun, laughter and adventure for you! **

**Thanks to my beta Pipsis. I hope 2015 won't start as stressful as 2014 ended ;-) **

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**Moving on**

"This letter isn't to mark any significant point in your life or mine. This letter is Just Because… Just Because."  
― Darnell Lamont Walker, _Creep_

27th April

Dear Sherlock,  
Yes, I admit that I did not expect you to know what the Grinch was. Did your father read a lot of bedtime stories to you? What was your favourite one? I already know that you liked _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_. Did you like adventure stories in general? I can imagine you being the child that had Dr Seuss next to Dr Freud on the bookshelf.

Thanks for the not-compliment about my taste in clothes. Saying such things won't help my non-existent self-confidence, you know! I want to drink less coffee, because overindulgence is not good for your health; especially if you replace food with coffee, and I do that on stressful days (and so do you). But don't worry, I won't give up on my guilty pleasure of being a coffee junkie. We both know that you are just worried that if I did I would stop getting you coffee.

It sounds like you've already seen a lot of Europe. These study programs are a great opportunity for young people. You have been to the States too? Where have you been? I have always wanted to go there. I can imagine that it is so different than Europe: the people, the big cities, the landscape, the vastness, ... Yes, I spent 6 months in Serbia working for the Red Cross during my studies. It was a challenging experience. Apart from that I did not travel a lot. I simply could not afford it, and then my father got ill, but I've been to Ireland (got an aunt there), Scotland, Italy and to Amsterdam. But I'd love to see so much more! Maybe one day.

Since I have been to Amsterdam, I know about coffee shops ;-) Did you try one of the cookies and have you experienced the munchies? Wow, I have not ridden a bike in ages! I would not dare to do it in London, afraid I would get killed by a car or bus. But it's the best way to get around in Amsterdam. I remember I loved the canals, and if you still feel bored, go to the Anne Frank museum, it's really interesting... and sad... but inspiring. You have to listen to the conversations of the man the whole day long?! I don't envy you. And I am sure certain problems arise when his girlfriend is a hooker... I am sorry to hear that things don't go according to plan. I can imagine how frustrating it must be for you. All this travelling, working, always having to look over your shoulder, always being alert must be so tiresome. I wish there was something I could do for you. I hope that when you'll get this letter things have improved. And if not, maybe go find the _I Amsterdam- _sign and insult some stupid tourists who take pictures there. Maybe it will cheer you up a bit. What do you mean with "one misses one fixed point in a changing age?"

Don't worry, I will refrain from any more dating advice, since I see it's a topic we both actually don't want to talk about. I did not mean I was planning on meeting your parents, I just meant... Well, you know what, let's just forget about it, okay?

About what you said that the death of my father has not changed me as a person: How can you assume I did not change as a whole? You did not even know me then, hence could not know if I was a different person before his death.

I don't agree that talking about our feelings doesn't help us. Yes, it may not change things, but still I think it's important. We need to get some things off our chest, even if it does not alter anything. After telling someone what has been on your mind it can feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulder. Even you do it: You told me how exhausting your mission was, although you knew I did not have the power to change it. Yet still you had the need to tell me. But I agree: Action speaks louder than words.

You realize that telling me to learn to say "no" sometimes won't help your cause, don't you? It means that I would have to refuse you from time to time too. And I am sure you would not enjoy that at all. I know that I should learn to do more things for myself and not always do stuff for other people, because I want them to like me. I should be more egoistic at times and not always put other people's needs above mine. But it's hard to change who you are.

The way you wrote about me not going to your funeral left the impression that you are mad at me for not going. I did not realize then that you wanted me to go. You could have told me so. Normally you don't have problems with telling me what to do. Sorry... that was inappropriate. I did not think it was suspicious of me not to attend your funeral. I thought the others might find it logical that I was trying to hide behind my work and that it might be my way of coping with it. Additionally I thought that way I would prevent the risk of saying or doing something stupid. You're right, we're even: You were silly for going there, and I was silly for not doing it.

It seems I can't argue with your opinion on work being the most important thing in life, since you have already made up your mind about it. Only one thing: It was not work that helped my father or gave him peace in the end.

I was always under the impression that you thought we were quite different, since outwardly I'd say we are like night and day. But I guess you're right, we have more in common than first meets the eye.

Of course I meant the Elisabeth tower when talking about Big Ben. But, come on, no one calls it that. I think most people don't even know its official name. You are such a know-it-all. I sometimes wonder why people don't punch you in the face more often...

Mrs Hudson's nephew Bill runs the drug cartel now?! Oh my… Good thing I did not meet him. I told Mrs Hudson that I was not interested in a relationship right now, and she accepted it without any further ado. Maybe she thought about it too and came to the conclusion that it was not so wise to set me up with her criminal nephew. Mrs Hudson really is something!

Toby is well again. I am sorry for being such a mess last time because of it. Thank you for your kind words and for the list of veterinarians. By the time I got your letter Toby was already fine again. Like you have said, he only had some kind of flue. He got some pills that he had to eat with his food and the vet told me to feed him some water with a syringe, but it was nothing serious, and he is again the happy, stubborn, sulking, complicated, wonderful feline he was before.  
I would have never guessed that you had a dog. So you are a dog person too? ;-) What kind of dog was it? What was its name?

Since the last time I wrote you, there have been a lot of developments: I don't know if you have seen it, but John is blogging again. He wrote about "good old times" and it sounds like he has finally come to terms with what has happened. (Better not read the comments that those stupid morons posted. I know you've said I should not care, but I just couldn't help myself. It makes me so angry!) I talked to Mike about it the week prior, and he told me that John is working in a doctor's surgery again. He told me he had met him the other day and that he seemed fine. He even found himself a new girlfriend, and Mike said he was sure that it was very serious. He said – and I quote, "She managed to ignite the spark of hope in his eyes again." And for that alone you've got to like her. I am so happy for him! I even met the mysterious girlfriend this week, totally by coincidence: I ran into her in front of Mike's office, and she started a conversation with me right away. She (her name is Mary) was extremely friendly and has a great sense of humour. She is nothing like John's previous girlfriends (I don't mean that in a rude way...). I think you will like her, honestly. In some way she is a bit like you. I can't really tell you what it is exactly, but she has the same kind of aura around her as you do.

Do you remember Anderson's fan club, I told you about, _The Empty Hearse_? Well, the theories keep getting weirder and weirder. Now he has made a ranking about "the most likely scenarios of how it was done." You should at least look into the first two or three. In my opinion number one is the most ridiculous one. I am sure you will be quite mad when you read it. It says that you faked your death by jumping off the roof with a Bungee rope, crashed through a window where I was waiting for you and then... well... Just read it. It is so farfetched! How does he even come up with something like that? And why is he including me? I am planning on speaking my mind next time I'll see Anderson. I want him to keep me out of this. Doesn't he have anything better to do than inventing unrealistic scenarios of your fall? Obviously not. Anderson did not even like or care about you!

Well, I hope things have improved in the land of tulips and cheese and I'm looking forward hearing from you.

Yours,

Molly


	19. Belgium

**A/N: Thank you again for all the kind words! The letters are getting longer and we're getting closer to the end…  
Thanks to my beta Pipsis, who takes care that what I write makes sense ;-)**

**To Guest:**** You're right, if CAM had known about the letters, Molly would probably have been a pressure point and not The Woman. Sorry, but no, I won't throw poor Molly into the bonfire – getting roasted is John's speciality. But don't worry, they will meet, eventually. Just a little more patience. **

* * *

**Belgium**

"If the portraits of our absent friends are pleasant to us, which renew our memory of them and relieve our regret for their absence by a false and empty consolation, how much more pleasant are letters which bring us the written characters of the absent friend."  
― Héloïse d'Argenteuil, _The Letters of Abélard and Héloïse_

19st June

Molly,

Yes, my father read a lot of bedtime stories to us – that was until Mycroft started to point out that they were generally unrealistic and bad researched. In hindsight, I have to admit he was right. Don't be ridiculous, Dr Freud is no read for children. I guess I preferred adventure stories to others. But I soon started to read books about historical figures, especially between 1450 and 1550. Dr Freud found his way into my bookshelf much later. (Actually I think I've already thrown away the books written by him.) I could never really relate to his theories. All this stuff about mothers... in my opinion he had a problem with his own. As I've said before, psychology is an unpredictable field and does not count as serious science to me.

You will agree that on some days it is necessary that one replaces food with coffee. I can work better that way, because fluids – as opposed to solid food - don't slow me down while working. But when not on a case that's above a 5, I quite enjoy a good meal. I know some good Chinese places near Baker Street.

In the US I have been to Chicago, Boston and New York, but spent most of the time in Boston and New York. Yes, it is very different there, especially the language. The way people pronounce certain words is atrocious! But although they can't make tea (or coffee for that matter) and the underground (or subway how they call it there) is dirty and the taxis yellow, the Natural History Museum is worth visiting. So I recommend travelling to the States, and you should definitely do more travelling in general. It would broaden your horizon. Since I don't need you in the morgue at the moment, it would be a good time to take a holiday.

No, I did not try any cookies. That kind of drug has never really interested me. Since I had work to do, I could not afford feeling sick after eating a cookie. I am glad I could leave behind the pot-heads and have moved on. I am in Belgium now, travelling from one small city to the next, following a lead that might go as far as the high ranks in the European commission. Things are better here – no annoying conversations about girlfriends and jealous boyfriends I have to listen to. Back in Amsterdam I actually insulted some tourists in front of the "I Amsterdam"-sign. And it helped a bit. It was a good advice. I can see why you would have liked Amsterdam. Ordinary people might find something romantic in all the canals and picturesque buildings. I am sure you would like Belgium as well, and if only because they have delicious chocolate and waffles here. You would love to sit in a café here and have a hot chocolate.

I don't have issues with talking about dating or you meeting my parents, but it seems to me like you do. But maybe you're right. Let's just leave it at that and talk about something else.

I can say with absolute conviction that your character did not change as a whole because of your father 's death. The way you talk (talked) about him, how you paid attention to his feelings and saw him, was the same even before he died. Otherwise you would have never noticed that he was sad in the end. The kind of perception you needed for this deduction was not something that flew to you after his death, but is a trait that you've had all your life. Probably without consciously realizing that you did. It even slipped my attention until of late.

Me telling you about the frustration I was suffering from listening to the phone conversations of morons had nothing to do with me talking about my feelings. I was merely stating facts. And while telling you I knew that it would not change the situation. I knew there was nothing you could do about it. I mean, if I could not do anything about it, how should you? Since we are discussing our daily businesses in those letters I did exactly that. I told you about my dull routine in Amsterdam. Now it's over and I can complain about the dull people in Den Hague.

No, I don't "enjoy" it when people refuse me, but they rarely do. And we both know even if you did, I would find a way to make you help me anyway. I did not mean you should say "no" to me, but to other people who are not important. Like, tell your dull colleague Ruth (in the ridiculously tight and short skirt – as if the dead would spare her a glance) to do her paperwork herself and stop correcting her mistakes. Maybe it will help her see how incompetent she really is. Although I doubt that... she seems to be one of those people who live in their happy bubble of general ignorance.

In case I would have died for real you would have come to my funeral, wouldn't you? And that's why you should have come to my funeral. I said it looked suspicious, because in case I had died for real you would have come. The way this plan works, is to act as if my death was real. I did not tell you to attend the funeral, because I did not see a need to. It has never crossed my mind that you would not. Next time I'll make sure to be more precise in my instructions. There was no need to worry about saying or doing something stupid. I would have never trusted you with my death if I was not one hundred percent sure you'd pull it off.

No offence, but your father did not have my job. Therefore you cannot know if my work gives me all the comfort I need. Which it does. But you are right: There is no work in the world that could have saved your father.

Although your comparison may be a bit too cliché for my taste, but day and night fits us quite well. And I guess it's obvious who is what.

Of course I'm a know-it-all, because I know it all. At least the things that really count; not some trivial tabloid paper knowledge about the birth of a "celebrity" baby. Believe me, people have tried to hit me countless times, but they mostly miss or just stick to insulting me. Most people don't attempt to punch me, because I am quite tall, have a certain kind of intimidating demeanour and know three types of martial arts.

Good that you refused the date with Bill. It would have ended in a disaster, believe me. I'll have a word with Mrs Hudson once I'm back. I understand that she doesn't want me to tell Lestrade about him and his business, but... Maybe I'll have a word with her beloved nephew himself.

I am glad to hear that Toby is well again, honestly. He really is a ... special cat. I know cats are generally considered as being obstinate, but Toby plays on a whole different level. My dog was an Irish Setter and his name was Redbeard. I tried to train him to become a cadaver dog, but my parents did not approve of it and torpedoed my plans. We've always had different opinions about what was appropriate and what not. I tried to reason with them and explain to them how useful a dog with such skills would be, but they would not listen. Nevertheless Redbeard was a faithful, good and useful companion for my earliest experiments and discoveries.

Yes, I saw that there have been new posts on the blog. And I have also seen that John's writing style has not improved. He still makes up sensational titles for the cases (_Murder at "The Orient Express"_, I mean, come on... Just because the crime scene was a Chinese restaurant? Isn't that a bit racist?) and tends to romanticize and trivialize things. He should just stick to the facts. He should have written what Wong did and why the others had plotted to kill him. And yes, I was impressed by what they had pulled off, because he deserved it. Why does that mean I have "an odd sort of justice"? But obviously people are more interested in the trappings and personal babbling than real facts. No wonder people did not value my study of tobacco ash on my blog.  
You do realize that "stupid morons" is a pleonasm, don't you? I can only tell you once more to refrain from participating in discussions about my death. It was silly of you to write I was a good man. That's not an objective evaluation, but personal wishful thinking.

I hardly doubt that John's new girlfriend is in any way similar to me. I imagine she's just a distraction for John in order to compensate my absence. I have outlived a number of his girlfriends and I undoubtedly will outlive her. But if she's different (and hopefully better) than his previous girlfriends then it is an improvement. Let's see if she's still around once I'll be back. Then I'll decide if she's worth remembering her name.

You have answered your own question: No, people like Anderson don't seem to have anything else to do than inventing theories about people they do not know. No, Anderson never liked or cared about me (the feeling is mutual), but he has a bad conscious. He feels responsible for my death, because he thinks he belongs to the people who have driven me to jumping off a building. By making up this theories and sticking to his opinion that I am not dead, he feels better, because this way he did not cause my death. Of course he did not, and he is stupid for even thinking that I would care about anything he has ever said to me. As if his insults or doubts would have influenced me... Ridiculous.  
I read some of the theories on _The Empty Hearse_ website, but I don't see why you would think number one being the most farfetched one, when it would obviously be number two. Me allying with Moriarty and kissing him!? It would be okay if it would stop there, but fooling everyone by throwing a dummy off the roof?! That's the most ridiculous one I have heard or read so far. I agree, me crashing through a glass window without being severely hurt is nonsense, but at least theory number one is more thought-out than number two. Number one is not as unrealistic as you make it out to be.

Sherlock


	20. Lonely

**A/N: What can I say? Thank you all!  
Now comes the really angsty part. Sorry, but it had to happen at some point ;-) But Sherlock is already in Belgium, so we're getting closer… **

**To Guest: Thank you for pointing that out. Stuff like that helps me a lot – since English is not my first language. Cheers!**

* * *

**Lonely**

"Henceforth letter-writing had to take the place of all the affection that could not be lived."  
― Thornton Wilder, _The Bridge of San Luis Rey_

8th July

Dear Sherlock,

Do you ever feel lonely? Don't worry, I don't expect an answer, it was more a rhetorical question. Normally I don't feel lonely, because I love my work, I like being on my own, reading, cooking, … but on some nights… I can imagine you rolling your eyes at how pathetic I sound. Sometimes I envy you. I envy that you can be so detached from your feelings. Although I know you do have some, even if you don't want me to know, or worse write it down ;-)

Sorry, I just had a bad day, but I'll try to focus on what you wrote in your last letter.  
My dad read me bedtime stories as well. Of course mine often included fairies and princesses, at least in the beginning. My dad soon realized that I liked the gruesome and thrilling parts of fairy-tales best and started to read Edgar Allen Poe to me. Oh how I loved (still love) his short stories. Especially _The Murders in_ the _Rue Morgue _and _The Masque of Red Death _have been my favourites. When I read Poe nowadays, I can still hear my father's deep voice, reading to me in the perfect pace, putting emphasis on the right words.

I am not a friend of Dr Freud either. Not every dream we have is sexually motivated, and not every tree symbolizes a phallus.

Your dog's name was Redbeard? It seems like the novels you liked to read about the 15th and 16th century left quite an impression on you. Did you like pirate stories? I have to admit the only one I ever read was _Mutiny on the Bounty – _and that doesn't really count as a pirate story, does it? I can totally imagine you and Redbeard going on adventures together in the backyard of your house. He must have been an extraordinary dog. What happened to him in the end? I hope he passed away peacefully at an old age.

Of course I would come to your funeral, would you die for real. How can you doubt that? It's true, it was a lame excuse that we were understaffed that week, but I couldn't bear the thought of making everything even harder for you than it already is. So I didn't tell you the real reason. I did not attend your funeral, because I was afraid I could not cope with everyone looking at me with a pitiful expression on their faces and everyone mourning your death, while I knew you were (relatively) okay. I was not sure if I could pull off lying to them while standing at your grave, throwing dust onto an empty coffin. It was too much for me. I know you put so much faith in me by letting me into your plan (I know you did it, because you needed my help) and I was determined not to mess it up and to prove myself to you. Afraid I would fail you and give something away unintentionally I thought it better to stay away from your grave on that day.

Anderson and his fan club wore black armbands on the anniversary of your "death". They met at Anderson's and the motto of the day was _Sherlock lives_. Don't worry, I was not there, but I read it on the internet. I guess they discussed old and new theories about your death. By now I've started to worry a bit about Anderson, because this whole conspiracy thing has become dangerously close to being an obsession for him. A few days ago Greg (Lestrade) told me that Anderson tells him at least one theory a day. _The Empty Hearse _even wants to start a petition in order to disinter your body to make sure that the corpse in the coffin is really you, or if they have buried an empty coffin. Needless to say that they will never succeed (you've probably already heard about it from your brother), but still I start to find it a bit disturbing. Since Anderson is convinced that I was somehow involved in your death, I fear he might start to stalk me or something. He even grew a full beard – it looks weird on him.

I know you've said that I should refrain from participating in any discussion about your death, but I just had to say something. Someone had to help John and support him. I think it's important for him so see that he is not alone in this and that his friends are there for him. Although I know Mary is a great support for him. It makes me so sick reading what those people write about you, although they don't even know (knew) you. How can they say you were a fraud? And above all I hate the way they pick at John and insult him, saying he is a liar when he's the only one who writes the truth about you. How can you say that it was silly of me that I wrote you were a good man? You were. You are.

I guess you meant John, when you said you missed one fixed point in a changing age. I can totally understand that. He was not only your flat mate and doctor, but your best friend as well. Therefore I usually held myself back when talking about him, but I won't lie to you, because I know I am rubbish at it and you would probably deduce through some graphological knowledge of yours that I was lying, so the truth is that it is hard sometimes. It is hard to look at John fighting with his demons, his grief, when two lousy, little words from me could make the pain disappear.

I met John for coffee the other day. He kept his word and contacted me a few days after our brief exchange on his blog. Out of the blue he told me, "One of the last things he said to me was 'It's a trick. Just a magic trick.' Is it a magic trick, Molly?" There was such desperation in his voice and eyes that it almost broke me. But before I could even form an answer in my head, he shook himself out of his reverie, sighed deeply and waved a hand. "Sorry, Molly, I'm just being silly. It still gets to me from time to time."

You are the only person in the whole world I could be totally honest with, yet still I find myself holding back from time to time. Like when you asked me why I did not attend your funeral. I was not lying to you, but I could not tell you everything, although I really wanted to. I have the feeling like my whole life has become this one big lie, like I have forgotten how to be completely honest with someone. I constantly think about what I am saying or if any of my behaviour may seem suspicious. When talking to our friends I am always wary and feel tense, because I am afraid I might say something wrong and ruin everything. Since your departure I have tried to build this wall around myself and hide my feelings. And it's so exhausting! How do you do that all the time? Is there a trick? Does it get easier after some time?

You've said in one of your letters that it was typical for me to find a fairy tale-like line even in the most depressing plays. But on lonely Sunday nights like this I can't seem to find any trace of fairy dust in my own life. Being the person I am, I won't find it as bad tomorrow morning. I know that this feelings will pass and I will go back to work – to live my life. I will make myself busy at the morgue and try to compensate for the fact that I am lonely everywhere else. But I am lonely. Literally. Figuratively. Take your pick.

I know you don't want to hear (read) it, but sometimes I worry about you. When I don't get a letter in weeks, I worry if you are ok; If you are still alive at all. And I ask myself if I would even be informed if you weren't? Would Mycroft or some of his suit-wearing underlings tell me? Or would I just have to wait for weeks, months until I'd finally had enough and make my way to the _Diogenes Club _and confront your brother?

When I lie awake at night and worry about you, I wonder if you ever think or me, I mean us. Do you ever wonder what we are doing or how our lives look without you? Probably not, because you think it's counterproductive. But what keeps you going? Just the thrill of the chase, the game? I hardly believe so. I mean, you are on your own on this mission and have no one to talk to. Don't you crave human company sometimes?

I miss you. You've probably known that already, and you certainly don't want me to verbalize it, because it makes it so much more tangible, but it's true. I'm sure you think it's ridiculous, because we've never been close or anything, yet still life is so different without you. In the beginning I expected you to waltz into the morgue every time I heard the door. You were every man with dark curly hair and a long coat, and I thought it was you every time someone stood too close behind me in the queue in the canteen. But it never was you. And every time I realized it wasn't – that it could not be you – it stung. I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me every single time. There are still so many instances when I think, "Sherlock would like that", or, "That is the liver with liver cirrhosis Sherlock had been looking for." I wonder if I still think like that because I know you are alive. Would it be different if I was as clueless as the others? Would I have managed to move on and not miss you anymore?

You may be right: I won't be happy with a nice guy like Tom, but I just wish I could be. Why am I still looking for the impossible? Is it because I've read too many Jane Austen novels or watched too many romantic comedies? Maybe I should follow your example and don't watch films or read fiction anymore.

If you do feel lonely, Sherlock, what do you do? What helps you cope? Do you try to keep yourself busy by solving a minor case or do you build a new room in your mind palace? Will you tell me one day what it looks like? How do you stay so detached from your feelings? Is there a trick? And don't just say you do not have feelings, because we both know that's a lie. From time to time I wish I could see (or at least hear) what is going on in that brilliant mind of yours. And I don't mean the part where you make your deductions and observations, but the part of your mind that hides behind that analytical one. I wish I could see behind the mask that you wear like armour. I would not hurt you or deceive your trust. You know that, don't you?

You told me in your first letter that there was no need to thank you for the postcard. Yet still I am grateful for it. Because I admit, I was sad that you had left without bothering to say goodbye. I know I may have reacted the wrong way by hugging you when you stayed at my flat, but you must understand that my only intention was to comfort and console you and I did not know how to do that with words. I have never been exceptionally good at expression myself verbally when it comes to you (as you have remarked on several occasions). I've never wanted to give you the impression that I pitied you. Because I did not and I do not wow. I have total faith in you and that you will succeed in dismantling Moriarty's network. It was not pity that drove me, but rather the wish to let you know that I was there for you. And maybe it was also my own selfish need for comfort. But even if you were mad at me for behaving the way I did, I did not think you would sneak out of my flat without a single word – or even a lousy note. It hurt me that you would leave like that – me staying behind not knowing when I would see you again. But through contacting me you have showed me that it was not just an empty phrase, but that you meant it when you said I counted. What I am trying to say is that I appreciate the trust you put in me by telling me about your mission or yourself. I like reading your letters and the conversations we're having (even if they are embarrassing because we are discussing my love life, or better the lack of it). I hope that my letters are able to give you at least a little bit of the solace yours provide for me. I can imagine how tiresome it must be for you, being on the run all the time, trusting no one and watching your back. Hopefully it will be over soon, and you'll return to us safe and sound. You may not want to be a hero or a good man, but you are one, because you do this for your friends - to keep them safe. I have no doubt that you will win in the end. I have always believed in you.

Yours truly,

Molly


	21. No words

**A/N: I was blown away by the response on the last chapter. You are awesome! I know you all want to read Sherlock's reply, but… well… yeah… sorry… **

**Thank you Pipsis for being an awesome beta! **

* * *

**No words**

"Only write to me, write to me, I love to see the hop and skip and sudden starts of your ink."  
― A.S. Byatt, _Possession_

20th September

Why did I write all that stuff to him? Why did I not write it down here? I mean, that's what you're here for after all. That's what a journal is for: to write down your feelings and thoughts, because they are mostly so foolish that it is better no one else reads them. I should have at least waited until the next morning until throwing the letter into the dust bin in front of Bart's. But no, instead I threw caution and common sense in the wind and went there in the middle of the night to post the damn letter. I don't know what has gotten into me to write what I wrote, yet alone send it. It's not like I think Sherlock would lose sleep on me feeling sad and lonely. God, and it cannot be undone! But maybe the letter did not reach him? He said he was travelling around in Belgium. Maybe the letter was not delivered in time and he was already somewhere else? Oh, who am I fooling? The letters have always found him so far, no matter where he was – even in the depths (or in this case heights) of the Himalayas.

The reason why I am acting so psycho about it is that I did not receive a letter in over two months. I know the intervals between the letters have often been up to a month, but it has never taken him this long to get back before. Finally, I have managed to scare him off. I have to admit it took me longer than I thought it would. But I knew that day would come. Latest when he would return to London, he would treat me like before the fall. I knew that he would act as if we had never become... what? Pen pals? I always knew he would probably never acknowledge that we had interesting conversations. But I did not expect him to stop writing letters altogether. Just like that. I really thought we were past that stage and had established a certain level of trust.

I had the impression that Sherlock opened up a bit. I wonder if Sherlock ever read _The Catcher in the Rye_ when he was a teen, and when he came across "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody" he came to the conclusion that this was the message of the book and from that moment onwards would become the motto of his life. But in some rare statements in his letters some cracks would show in his armour and he would tell me something.

Sherlock said he did not understand why people should talk about their feelings, because it did not change anything. He complained about psychiatrists forcing their patients to talk about what they felt, and it sounded suspiciously as if Sherlock was talking from experience. And he probably did. I don't know what his childhood, his teens or college years were like, but I can imagine that it was not easy for him being... different. And with his past of being a drug addict he must have had his fair share of psychiatrists. I sometimes wonder if Sherlock has always been like that – sure he was always exceptionally intelligent – or if there had been a point in his life when he turned into a man that decided to be detached from his feelings? What had caused it? Did someone hurt him?

Sometimes I wonder if he's really ignorant of other people's feelings, or just pretends to be? Like when I asked him out for coffee: Did he really not know what I meant, or was it just his way of gently letting me down? Okay, it may not have been gentle, but maybe he thought it was? Why do I still find excuses for him? Since when does Sherlock actually care about my feelings? Wasn't it even crueller of him to refuse me like that if he knew that I was actually asking him out? He's always known that I was attracted to him. It was plainly obvious. But at Christmas he honestly did not seem to have a clue. He was taken aback in earnest when he saw that the present was for no one else but him. And he told me he was sorry, even twice. And he would not have done it had he not cared, would he?

I realized that not once did he ask about John in his letters. He only mentioned him when he was talking about the Christmas party; and in his last letter. He talked about Mrs Hudson, Anderson or Greg, but he never talked about John. He did not complain about me telling him about his friend, but he would not comment on it. I guess it is because it pains him too much to think, or even speak about him. John is probably the person he misses the most. Even if he said that his skull Billy was the best listener, John will always be his best friend. And he would not have let John into his flat – and life – if Billy would have been enough for him. Everyone needs human company, even Sherlock Holmes.

I've got the feeling that since this whole letter-thing started, all I do is wait; sit and wait for the next letter to arrive. I constantly think about how many days I should wait until I write back, so that it would not look pathetic (like I had been waiting for the letter, anticipating it). He should not think that. But it's probably useless, because he is Sherlock Holmes, after all. And especially after my last letter he knows. Hell, I told him I missed him! But since Sherlock Holmes and I have become some weird sort of pen pals, I feel like my life is on line.

Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone? Well, then imagine how it feels to be staring at your mailbox! The constant torture of waiting for your mobile to indicate a new text or call is nothing compared to the fatal disappointment that hits you when you find your mailbox empty. You've been building up hope the whole day that when you'll finally get home, maybe a letter will be awaiting you. And when you'll open the box and find nothing but emptiness, you feel the same way inside. But over the course of an endless seeming night you build up hope again, only to have it destroyed again in the light of dawn. You hate every bill that you mistake for THE letter and try not to get your hopes up every time you spot some letter in the mail. And then, one glorious day, there's the white envelope that you've been anticipating. You can hardly wait to get upstairs into your flat to read it. Your heart beats faster and your hands are gripping the paper tighter than necessary. While reading, you already form answers and comments, fearing that you'll forget them until you're finished reading the letter. And after this few blissful moments another kind of torture begins: You have to fight the urge to write back instantly. Because A: Under no circumstances you'd want to appear desperate and like you've been waiting for his letter (which you have) and B: Because once you've finished writing your response the waiting will start all over again.

Sherlock said I tended to fall for men who were either bad for me, beyond my reach, unavailable or needed to be saved. But to which category does he belong to? Probably to all four. That's the special thing about him. With him I get the whole package, the whole deal of hopelessness. Does he even realize that he has described himself? Maybe he does, because he once said, "Why would you have fallen for me then?" I know Sherlock does not want to be saved. And I know I cannot save him. He can only save himself. But that does not mean that he does not need help doing it and that I cannot try to be there for him. And that's probably the only one of all those categories I could actually have an impact on. Maybe...

Of course I can't help but wonder: Will he be back one day? And if, then what? What will happen then? Will it be back to the way it was before? Will he continue to solve crimes with John and use me if convenient? Will it be as if nothing had happened between us? I mean, nothing has happened, but then why does it feel like it has? Will he continue to talk about private stuff? Will it be different between us? How will I find out that he is back? Will he tell me beforehand? Will he suddenly be standing in my living room in his signature coat? Or will I read about his magical resurrection in the papers, and on the next day he will waltz into my morgue and demand some body parts? That's probably the most likely scenario. And of course the one I prefer the least.

But maybe I will never hear from him again. I should not have dumped all my doubts and fears onto him. He can barely cope with his own emotions. And then comes Dr Molly Hooper and harasses him with her emotional rollercoaster ride as well. I really had the impression that Sherlock had somehow started to open up a bit and tell me something about himself and his feelings (like when he told me how frustrating it was in Amsterdam). And now I have ruined everything, just because I felt a bit down on a Sunday evening. I am such a pathetic fool! Well done, Ms Hooper!


	22. It's over

**A/N: I hope this journal entry does not feel redundant, but if you have ever kept a diary while you were crossed in love and read it afterwards, you'd find that more or less all entries are the same, because your thoughts keep spinning about that special someone and your miserable situation. So that's what I wanted to do with this chapter: Sum up poor Molly's fears. But I promise that there will be light at the end of the angsty tunnel. And it won't be an approaching train ;-) Only one chapter left… **

**Thank you again for all your support and to those you've promoted my story on Tumblr – that's so sweet of you! **

**Pipsis was a tremendous help – as always. Thank you! **

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**It's over**

"Two words. Three vowels. Four consonants. Seven letters. It can either cut you open to the core and leave you in ungodly pain or it can free your soul and lift a tremendous weight off your shoulders. The phrase is: It's over."  
― Maggi Richard

31st October (Happy Halloween!)

I feel so conflicted. Not that this is something new, because that has become more or less the standard since Sherlock's fall, but now I feel conflicted, because I don't know if I am supposed to feel relieved or desperate. Maybe a bit of both? Or maybe I should stick to confused? Let me tell you what brought this on: I finally got a message from Sherlock. After months of silence and constant mental debate and torture on my part, he finally got back to me. Since my embarrassing letter to him in July, I have asked myself a million times what his next letter would be like. Would he tell me to move on and get a life? Would he tell me I was stupid? Would he ignore my whining and revelations and continue as if I had not laid bare my soul to him? So I more or less covered all outcomes I thought possible. But he would not be Sherlock Holmes, would he not surprise me again and do something totally different. Instead of a letter he sent me again a simple postcard. This time it was from Serbia and showed some landscape (some mountains and a river flowing through the valley). When I turned it over I had kind of a flashback to the first time he had sent me a postcard. Again – apart from my address – there were only two words written there: "It's over."  
But this time there were no mysterious dots and lines accompanying it, no, just those two words written in his unmistakable handwriting. "It's over." What does it mean? Dismantling Moriarty's network? Our correspondence? Our friendship, or acquaintance, as he would probably call it? His mission? His life? Does it mean that he is about to return to London, or does it mean that he will never ever return because... I can't even think about it. I know I should stay positive and not think about the worst case, but I just can't help myself. The last few months have worn me out. I have trouble sleeping and find it hard to concentrate.

When I did not hear anything from Sherlock at the beginning of October, I decided to put an end to my suffering and tried to contact Mycroft. Well, "contact" may be the wrong word, because it's not like I could call him. I went again to 10 Carlton House Terrace and bravely rang the bell of the _Diogenes Club_. Useless to say that no one answered me, but I was determined not to give in, and so I waited on the steps in front of the door. I watched men go by and looking down at me sitting there. But the waiting paid off, because at nightfall – my heard was resting against the handrail and I was about to fall asleep – Mycroft Holmes himself was suddenly standing next to me. I did not even hear the door being opened. Sneaking up must be hereditary in the Holmes family. I stood up and just as I was about to open my mouth to ask my well prepared questions, he beat me to it, "You are almost as persistent as my dear brother, Miss Hooper. I hope you know that it was very careless of you to come here. I cannot tell you anything about him. His whereabouts are currently unknown. Seems like we both have to wait and see. Good night." He nodded, and before I could utter a reply and tell him that I was in no way satisfied with his words, he had already made his way down the steps and gotten into a black, shiny car that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. I was not even able to process what had just happened, when a friendly, but determined voice next to me said, "May I ask you to leave the premises, Miss." I turned my head to the side and found myself face to face with a tall man in a black suit and broad shoulders. He belonged to security, obviously. I realized that it was useless to argue with him, and since Mycroft was not there anymore, I saw no reason to defy him. I only nodded and went back home – feeling tired and depressed. The visit did not go as I had planned. It did not put my mind at ease, but made it even worse. Had Mycroft lied to me to get rid of me or even to keep me safe (meaning, in the dark about the mission), or did he honestly not know where his brother was? Instead of getting some answers, I was faced with more questions. And since then I have been torturing myself even more with useless questions I cannot answer myself, because only one man can. But instead of doing that, he sends me a postcard from Eastern Europe with a cryptic message that only makes it worse. It is infuriating!

The message probably means that he has no intention of coming back. Maybe I should have never told him about all of us moving on, or trying to move on. I know Sherlock hates change, and so much has changed here in the time since his departure. And those changes had to happen. How else could we have gotten on with our lives? We all had to fill the gap that Sherlock left behind. Mrs Hudson tried to seek company in the new owner of _Speedy's_, Lestrade finally ended his marriage, Anderson tried to kill his guilt by founding a fan club, John found Mary and I tried to date Tom (In hindsight: How could I ever fool myself?). Maybe Sherlock will think we all tried to find a substitute for him. Maybe he is right. But does he know that there is no substitute for him? That he is, like he has said non-replaceable, for all of us? Will he understand that although we have moved on there is still this empty space that his death left behind, and that he is the only one who can fill it properly? Does he understand that while some things change, some will always stay the same? I doubt it. Because Sherlock does not see that there are people who care about him. He does not want to see it. He thinks it makes him weak, when in reality it does just the opposite.

What if his words mean that his mission is over and he will return? Writing those letters felt a bit like we were the only people in the world, because we are part of an exclusive club of people who know the truth. This secret united us in some sense and I fear that once he will be back this feeling of unity will be gone. And now while I am waiting for something to happen, I can't help reflect on some things he wrote to me over the time. He did not explain to me what he meant with "one misses one fixed point in a changing age", but I guess he meant John. Who else would there be? Him never really talking or asking about John is further proof to me. When broaching a subject that hit a nerve, he usually turns cold or silent – sometimes both. He hates showing weakness and feelings. The vulnerability in him – something he would loathe to acknowledge in himself – made me ache; like the way he talked about Redbeard. There was such a childlike innocence and pain about it. It sounded like he had not only lost a dog, but a close friend. And maybe that was what Redbeard really was: his faithful friend that gave him some sort of peace in a world where he was constantly at war with his busy mind.

"I don't think we're that different after all. We share the same interests," he once wrote. Does he really think that? I had never thought that Sherlock would see it that way. But he would not have written it if it were otherwise. He constantly boasts himself with only stating facts. We do share the same interests, but is that all we have in common? Is that enough? Enough for what?

He said he knew some good Chinese places near Baker Street. Why did he write that? Was it an invitation? I guess not, because he said he did not date and we would never go on a date. Still, reading stuff like that made me hopeful and doubtful and... oh so confused...

Sherlock's reaction to Anderson's theories about how it was done was another one of those confusing situations: When I read theory number 1 on the internet I was blushing and felt my heart speed up. Anderson described in detail, how Sherlock crashes through the window of Bart's, ruffles his hair, turns up his collar, how I – I mean fictitious Molly – runs her fingers through his curls while kissing him. It was pure torture reading it, because it felt like Anderson had stolen one of my private fantasies and written it down for the whole world to see. And what is Sherlock's reaction to reading it? "Number one is not as unrealistic as you make it out to be." !? What is that supposed to mean? He surely means in terms of the technical stuff, like jumping off the roof with a Bungee rope. I know he had at least a dozen different scenarios worked out how he could outlive Moriarty. Maybe one of them included a Bungee rope? But how can he not comment on the kissing-stuff? I thought he might be mad at Anderson even suggesting such a thing, or say that it was totally ridiculous, because the great Sherlock Holmes would never kiss a pathologist with small lips and breasts. I was prepared for any kind of humiliation, but there was none; just "number one is not as unrealistic as you make it out to be." In hindsight: Why did I even bring it up in the first place?

When I told Mrs Hudson I did not want a date with her nephew Bill, because I was not interested in a relationship (that was even before Sherlock told me that he ran a drug cartel), she took my hand, looked into my eyes sympathetically and told me, "I know sweetheart, but he's gone and he won't come back. I know it's hard, but you should try to move on. He would have wanted you to." How sad is that? I can't even hide it from Mrs Hudson. I don't want to miss him anymore. I know he is gone, but I am still hoping that he will come back.

Why is there such a thing as unreciprocated love at all? Who takes profit from it? Maybe it was invented by the tissue and chocolate ice cream industry? My life would be so much easier if I could hate him. If I could be mad at him for all the horrible things he said to me – in person and in his letters. But sometimes he was right in what he wrote. You can't punish people for telling the truth. No matter how much you want it.

He has never explicitly talked about what he was doing. I mean, he has told me more than I have expected, but he has never written that he has killed someone. But I could read between the lines. I can imagine what he must have done. That he has killed people. And it does not disturb me. Is that wrong? Probably. I am in love with a murderer. But that's not what he is for me. I know Sherlock would never kill someone if there was another way. He only does what he does to survive and to keep us all safe. His friends, who do not even know that he is out there trying everything to ensure their safety.

The thought has crossed my mind that maybe I should burn his letters, because they are evidence that he's still alive. I would never want to endanger him, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. How could I? Those letters - the words he writes in sometimes elegant and sometimes hasty handwriting – are the only things that keep me connected to him. They are what keep me from going mad and help me deal with all the pretences. They remind me why I did it and why I must keep up the charade; no matter how hard it is for me. They give me hope that one day he will be back. I should not get my hopes up. But it is hard not to. After all that has transpired between us in all those letters… It's not like there has been a revolutionary confession on his part, or something like that, but I feel that he has changed and I have too. Sure, I'm still in love with him, but I am stronger now. I dare to contradict him (and if only on paper) and stand my ground. Having to play my part in his play of death and disappearance, I learned a lot about myself. Two years ago I would have never thought that I was capable of pulling off such a thing. But I did and I surprised myself and Sherlock Holmes. And I dare say that's a rare thing. I was not only able to prove to him, but to myself that I am valuable. Sherlock accused me of being masochistic because I visited Mrs Hudson, but I found that comforting her consoled me as well. From seeing that my company made her happy, I could draw strength. I realized that all those people: Mrs Hudson, Greg and John cared more about me than I have initially thought. If there was anything good about Sherlock's "death", then it was the fact that the loss we felt brought us closer together. Everyone felt a different kind of pain for different reasons and every one of us dealt with it differently, but what matters in the end is that no one gave up and we all still believe in Sherlock Holmes.


	23. London

**A/N: After many letters full of laughs, heartache and doubt we've finally made it: the reunion! Thank you so much for sticking with me 'til the end, for your support and encouraging words. A special thanks to those who reviewed every single chapter. I appreciate you spending your precious time on it. To say it with Franz Kafka, "May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air."**

**And last but not least: A bear-hug, a kiss, flowers, chocolate, … to my fantastic beta Pipsis, who did not only help a non-native speaker get her grammar right, but also had some words of encouragement left. Thank you!  
And here comes my turn on the infamous locker-room-scene. Enjoy! **

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**London **

"Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colours and textures and sounds, I felt-I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling _with_ you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted-and then I realized that truly I just wanted you."  
― Cassandra Clare, _Clockwork Prince_

It was late and she was tired. Doctor Molly Hooper had just ended an endless seeming day shift at St. Bartholomew's hospital. It was a well-known and respected institution and had become even better known since the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide by jumping off the roof of the pathology building almost two years ago. Molly was in that exact building right now, but some floors separated her from the place where the man with the long coat had stood before he had fallen into darkness. The petite pathologist was one of the few people who knew that the darkness was not a metaphor for death, but disappearance. His "suicide" had been part of an elaborate plan to bring down his arch nemesis James Moriarty. This plan did not only include a mission through Europe and other parts of the world to bring down Moriarty's vast network, but also the help of the shy pathologist.

Sherlock's "death" had influenced the lives of all of his friends (there was only a small group of them), albeit it brought out the most change in said pathologist, although or maybe because she knew that it had all been a magic trick in which she had been his assistant. Molly had always been an honest person – not only because she thought that honesty was important, but also because she was a terrible liar. But all of a sudden she had found herself in the position to not only keep Sherlock's secret (she had always been trustworthy), but to lie to her friends for an undefined amount of time. No one was to say if and when the detective would return from the dead. For playing her role in Sherlock's plan convincingly she had to get used to keep her feelings hidden from the others or mask it as grief over a lost friend. She had to change, to grow and in the process had to adapt her moral code more than once, but she never regretted her decision to help him. She had told him that he could have her, and she had meant it. But she knew he did not want her in the way she liked it to be. Yet still – probably without his knowledge – he had taken a part of her with him when he had gone away, and now she was constantly feeling torn. She knew it was not his fault, because she was someone who gave and he was someone who took, but she was tired of feeling that way.

Molly had been in contact with Sherlock over most of the time of his mission. He had told her where he was and what kind of books he had liked as a child. He had told her she was ignorant, and he had told her she was not boring. He had written that she had atrocious taste in clothes and that she had nothing to hide. He had chastised her for thinking she could be happy with a dog person and he had sympathized with her when her cat was sick. He had told her she lacked confidence and he had told her she was strong. He had insulted her, and he had complimented her; sometimes even in the same sentence. Molly had always written back and had told him about her life and those of his friends. But she had always held something back. She had never told him how hard it was for her to keep it together, because she was a very empathetic soul. The pathologist had loved his letters, every word in them, even the ones that had stung, but she was confused by some things he said and carrying the weight of his secret had started to wear her down. Then, one Sunday evening, Molly Hooper had felt like the loneliest person in the universe and had done the only thing that would make her feel better momentarily: She had put all her worries and fears down onto the page. She had told him the truth. She had told him that she missed him. And then the letters had stopped. She had not gotten another one for months, and she had not only started to worry, but question her decision about telling him how she felt. Molly had become restless and tired at the same time. Finally on All Hallows' Eve – the day where the dead were allowed to walk on earth - the dead consulting detective had sent her two words. It had not been much, but it had been all he could give her at the moment. And had she known that, she would have felt different about it. But since she had not, it only had made her more anxious.  
That was why Molly Hooper's step was weary when she opened the door to the women's locker room at St. Bart's. She did not know if she was glad to go home or if she dreaded the emptiness of her flat. She did not pay attention to her surroundings, but acted as if on autopilot: entering the room, taking out the keys, opening her locker, reaching for the hanger, and then she froze in her movement. There was something in her locker that did not belong there, something that had not been there in the morning. It was lying on the top shelf. Hesitantly she reached for it and pulled it out. It was some kind of ticket and attached to it was a piece of white paper with a message on it, "Everyone feels lonely at times."  
Molly stared at it, because she had come to know the handwriting all too well in the last two years. It had been the reason for comfort and pain. With shaking hands she drew back the piece of paper to have a look at the two tickets that were attached to them. "_Body Worlds_" they read.  
"Why else do you think I kept in contact with you?" The voice behind her made Molly jump. She spun around to see if her mind was playing an evil trick on her, making her hear HIS voice. But there he stood, materialized seemingly out of nowhere: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He had resurrected and looked at her as if it was an everyday occurrence that he stood in the women's locker room.  
Molly, on the contrary, wore an expression of shock and disbelieve. Her eyes were wide, and she did not dare to smile, still afraid that it was all a dream (she had had a lot of those in the last few months, in different variations and with different outcomes).  
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and said as a way of explanation, "I still owe you some answers."  
This made Molly come out of her stupor. She hurled herself into his arms.  
She knew he didn't like to be touched, but in this moment she simply did not care.  
She embraced him fiercely. His entire body seemed to still and stiffen at the shock of their touch, but he didn't pull away, and she felt strangely vindicated. Slowly his arms sneaked around her small frame, and he realized that she was even more fragile to touch that he had expected. She had lost weight, and he had the sickening feeling that he was the cause of it. He dared to close his eyes for a moment and felt a modicum of tension melt from his shoulders and neck. Her grip was like iron, and he found that he was unconsciously trying to pull her even closer. As soon as this came to his awareness he let go, and his arms hung useless to his sides. He was venturing into uncharted territory here after all.  
Molly felt that he had let go of her and forced herself to do the same. Reluctantly (and a little embarrassed by her emotional reaction) she stepped back hesitantly and wiped her eyes with the back of her right hand. Her left one was still clasping the tickets. She had not even realized that she had been crying. It looked like Sherlock hadn't neither, because when he got a glimpse of her tears he looked slightly panicked for a second. Molly smiled – in what she hoped was an apologetic way – and it made the corner of his mouth twitch. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so many questions she had to ask, but at the moment her mind was blank. Somehow she could not concur her vocabulary. All she could do was stare at him. His face was somehow stoic and painfully fragile at the same time. There was something there that she had never seen before, and she could not place it. She had missed seeing his face and since he did not seem to mind her staring she tried to find out if anything was different from what she remembered. Where there more wrinkles, was his hair longer? His nose was slightly red and there seemed to have been some blood, and he had a cut lip. Her eyes were fixed on that spot, and she finally found her voice again, "So, you've already seen John?"  
He winced and pointed to his face, "Yes. He punched me three times, can you believe it?"  
She chuckled and realized that she had not done that in a long time. "Actually I've expected it. I would have done the same thing if I were him, to be honest."  
He looked at her with a contemplating expression on his face. "Two years ago I would have said you would never dare." He regarded her with unusual interest. "But now..."  
Molly cocked her head to one side. "Now what?" She had meant for her question to sound playful, but it turned out way too breathless.  
"You have changed," he stated.  
"So have you."  
"Is it so obvious?" Suddenly he looked as detached and bored as ever. She was not sure if he was joking or not.  
"Well...," she did not know what she wanted to say; what he wanted her to say. She took a step back from him. Even after his long absence his presence made her feel nervous – or maybe it had even made it worse. She had asked herself a million times what their reunion (she had never given up hope that there would be such a thing) would be like. And now that it actually happened, she did not know if it went better or worse than she had expected. All she knew was that it was different from what she had pictured in her mind.  
The bigger distance between them gave him the chance to look her up and down. Molly felt the usual tingle as if he was X-raying her.  
After taking in her appearance he scrunched his nose in disapproval, "I thought you bought new clothes?"  
"I did."  
"Then what are those?" He gestured towards her cardigan and the blouse with blue and green flowers on it that was at least one size too big for her.  
She shrugged. "Old ones I've kept."  
"Why?" He sounded almost scandalized, and Molly had to roll her eyes at that.  
"I don't know. I just could not throw away everything. Had I know that you would turn up today, I would have worn something different," she said carelessly.  
Now it was Sherlock's turn to cock his head to one side. "You would have?" Although his face was impassive, something in his voice spoke of seductive excitement, and it made Molly's mouth turn dry.  
"Yeah," she contributed unhelpfully and hated herself for always feeling so tongue-tied in his presence. He was silent, regarding her with such intensity that she felt as if he were trying to bore a hole into her head.  
To break his stare she cleared her throat, "So, have you told John how you did it?"  
"You mean how we did it?"  
She smiled shortly, nodded and unconsciously started fumbling with the tickets in her hand.  
Sherlock continued, "Well, he was not really interested in me explaining how we pulled it off. He was rather more interested in the why." The detective sounded as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.  
The pathologist sighed. "I see." She had expected something like that. And she was pretty sure it had taken Sherlock at least one punch until he had figured it out too.  
All of a sudden he looked apologetic, and Molly realized how strange that expression looked on his face. "But I had to tell him that you helped me and that you knew."  
She nodded. She had suspected as much. The only way John would forgive Sherlock was that he would be totally honest with him from now on.  
"I told John not to be mad at you," he stated as if he was proud of himself.  
Molly shook her head and held back a chuckle. "Sherlock, you can't tell people what to feel or not feel. I would understand if he were angry at me. He has a right to be." She threw her hands in the air, "Hell, I've lied to him for two years!"  
Sherlock regarded her with a darkened expression. He did not understand. So she tried again, "How should one be able to tell someone else what to feel if one is not even able tell oneself what to feel. If that worked I…" She stopped in the middle of her sentence, because she realized with horror what she was about to say.  
"If that worked, then you would have stopped writing to me a year ago," he finished the sentence for her in a calm voice while regarding her with a thoughtful expression gracing his features.  
She looked down onto the floor, ashamed. It was useless to contradict him.  
"I am glad you didn't."  
Her eyes snapped back up to meet his, and suddenly she realized that what she had said before was true: She was not the only one irrevocably changed.  
When Molly looked back at him with her warm brown eyes, he suddenly felt the urge to look away. He had always stubbornly refused to get involved with his emotions, and now he was stuck in a kind of over-intensity, a superabundance of impressions. That's why he had tried to stay away from it, away from sentiment, from feelings. And then he had started this letter-thing, and everything had gone out of hand, out of control. He suddenly had had to reorient his view of certain aspects of his life.  
He had come here tonight to give her the answers he had refused her for so long, and he was determined to do it. Therefore he decided to get on with it.  
"You would have known."  
She looked at him confused, not knowing what he was talking about.  
"About my death. Mycroft had strict orders to let you know first-hand in case of my demise. And since I knew you would have been sad, I insisted on bringing the news to you gently and give you a hug to console you."  
Had Molly had something in her mouth at the moment, she would have chocked on it. "You've told Mycroft to hug me?!" She shook her head in utter disbelieve. "I know you didn't say it on my behalf, but to mock him. Still, I appreciate the thought."  
He regarded her with a boyish grin, because she had seen him through. She could not help but mirror his smile. It was a rare thing to see. And it made her happy to know that she had caused it.  
Slowly his smile faltered, and suddenly he looked at her in earnest. Molly did not know what had brought about this change in mood, but she started to feel nervous again.  
"Did you really mean it?"  
"What?" It seemed like he was talking in riddles today and jumping from one thought to another.  
"That I am a good man." He looked at her with his perceptive gaze, as if being ready to see something that would betray her dishonesty.  
Regardless to say that his search was in vain. Molly stated with absolute conviction, "Of course."  
"You have no idea what I have done in the last two years." His voice was almost inaudible and Molly felt her heart break.  
In a moment of bravery she reached out and brushed her hand over his upper arm. He did not acknowledge the gesture, but did not step back either. "I have a vague idea," she reassured him.  
He looked for something in her eyes. She did not know what it was, but he seemed to find it, because he exhaled a long breath and nodded.  
"When I went on that mission, I was sure I knew what awaited me, but then..." His voice trailed off and his stare became somehow vacant, as if remembering something. "I was not supposed to be the one who's lonely."  
Molly was not sure if he was even aware that he had said that out loud. She regarded him silently, waiting for him to come back to the present. He did so after shaking his head to clear his muddled thoughts. He looked at the petite pathologist in front of him, who had done everything he had asked of her and more. She had told him he could have her, and he wondered if that was still true. He had always been a man who had looked on women pathologically, as a source of motives, clues and yet he had kept the photograph of Billy she had sent him and all her letters. He had told himself to throw them away, because they were useless, sentimental baggage, but he could not bring him himself to do it.  
Molly felt like there was something he tried to tell her, but was not sure how. "Sherlock, I..."  
He interrupted her, "There are still some questions I did not answer." She closed her mouth and silently signalled him to go on. It seemed like he had planned on what to say to her. She did not know if that was a good or a bad sign. All she could do was wait and see. And she could do that. That's what she had been doing for almost two years now.

Sherlock's voice brought her back from her thoughts, "Yes, I originally meant John, when I wrote that I missed one fixed point in a changing age. But I am not so sure if that's still true."  
"What do you mean?"  
He had little experience of saying what he felt, but he wanted to try.  
He swallowed and his eyes went to look at the ceiling before settling back on her face. "Well, I have come to the conclusion that I missed you." Molly's eyes widened, and he hastily tacked on an addendum, "...professionally." The detective held her confused gaze for another second, then went back to stucco-gazing.  
Molly was at a loss. She did not understand what was going on here. Her palms were sweating and her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was less a necessity than a nervous gesture. She felt like when she had been reading his letters: She was confused. He obviously wanted to tell her something – she could read between the lines after all – but she did not dare hope that he was really trying to tell her what she thought it was, because she feared she was suffering from female over-interpretation again.  
A few feet away from the pathologist stood the world's only consulting detective who was clueless for once in his life. In his head this whole conversation had seemed so easy. He had managed to dismantle Moriarty's network and fake his death and now he would fail because of a fragile woman who barely reached his shoulders? He drew a frustrated hand through his hair, because he could not quite word his own admission as succinctly as he would have liked, and looked back down from the ceiling. And that was the moment his eyes fell on the object that was still in the hand of Molly Hooper. This was the clue Sherlock Holmes had been looking for. He drew a breath, slowly took a step forward, attentively reaching for her hand. He enveloped her diminutive hand in his firm grasp, and when he did so she looked at him with doe's eyes. He let his thumb graze her hand, and she did what he wanted to achieve with this gesture: She loosened her grip so he could take the tickets from her. They were a bit rumpled, because she had clutched them tightly, as if holding onto something. Her gaze followed his hand as he took the tickets from her and he asked, "You know what those are?"  
"Tickets for _Body worlds_?" She had meant to say it as an answer, but it came out as a question.  
"Obviously, but you know why I gave them to you?"  
Molly's eyes nervously danced between the tickets and his face, finally settling on the former.  
"Because it is a thank-you-gift?" she guessed.  
Sherlock had to hold back an exasperated sigh or – even worse – an insulting comment. Instead he breathed in and out and then explained, "In one of our letters we were discussing the nice, boring Tom, and you asked me where I would take you on our first date. Well, that's where I'll take you."  
A silence followed that seemed endless to Sherlock. He had expected her to throw herself into his arms, to start to tear up, to smile, to laugh, to... but not to don't show any reaction at all. Just as he was about to ask her if she was alright, he could see her blink rapidly and then lift her eyes from the tickets to meet his gaze. He could read the maelstrom of emotions laid bare all over her face.  
"But, but... you said we would never go on a date. You don't even think me attractive."  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I've never said 'never', and apart from your hideous clothes, your appearance is quite appealing."  
The moment the words had left his mouth he realized that it had probably been the wrong thing to say, but when he wanted to set it right, he saw an amused expression on Molly's face.  
"Is that meant to be a compliment, or a mere statement of facts?"  
That was what he had meant when he had written that they were not so different after all. She understood him. "Two years ago you would not have dared to defy me."  
"Two years ago you would not have paid me an honest compliment." There was a slight trace of hurt in her voice, but he could not blame her. She was right, and she saw it on his face. That made her turn her gaze onto the floor again. It seemed to him a bit like dismantling Moriarty's network: one step forward, two steps back. But he had two years of experience with that problem. He could deal with it. He knew he just needed to say the right thing: the truth, just once. The one thing he had wanted to tell her since he had read her last letter in which she told him her truth: that she was lonely and that she missed him. And her truth was his as well.  
Her head was down, showing nothing of her face. "Look at me... please," he said and was careful to let his voice sound gentle.  
Molly reluctantly submitted. Not because she wanted to, but because of the way he had asked. Sherlock didn't usually say please.  
When her eyes finally met his, she was not greeted with his usual closed off expression, but with open vulnerability that almost shocked her. He took her hand that he had been holding before again – the tickets between them – and said, "You are everything I didn't know I needed."  
Molly made a sound between a laugh and a sob and the next thing she knew was that she was kissing Sherlock Holmes. Neither of them knew who had initiated it, but neither cared. It was a desperate kiss that made them cling to each other. It made them forget everything around them for a few moments. Molly Hooper did not think of being conscious about his cut lip and Sherlock Holmes did not feel any pain or realize that he was practically crushing the tickets in his fist while burying his hands in her hair.  
When both drew back for air and Sherlock was reminded of his hurt lip by a stinging pain, both were smiling. They remained close, their foreheads touching and both breathing heavily. Sherlock was the first to break the blissful silence after running his tongue experientially over the place where John's fist had collided with his lip.  
"I should warn you: I am not a nice man."  
Molly arched her eyebrows and retorted in an amused tone, "I should hope so."

For most people St Bartholomew's hospital was known for being the place where the world's only consulting detective had died a lonely man, but for a small group of friends it was known for being the place where Sherlock Holmes had been born a good man with the help of the truth in the letters of Molly Hooper.

* * *

**The End **

**A/N: "Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious?" - Kathryn Stockett  
I could relate to that, because I was at some points a bit frustrated with my epistolary-style-project; especially with the last chapter, because I wrote it at 4 o'clock in the morning, and it turned out quite differently than I had expected (style-wise) – and way more sappy.  
And to A-M: sorry for the happy ending ;-)  
Still, I loved exploring new writing-territory (I hope you feel the same) and hence I'd like to end it the way it began, with a quote: **

"**Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse."  
― Jane Austen, **_**Emma**_


End file.
